No
by TheChiRho
Summary: To meet someone, there is a minute fear that said stranger can be a risk to one's safety. To bond with that someone, there is a feeling of closeness that invites its own perils to one's vulnerability. To meet and bond with Hannibal Lecter, that in itself is a new level of danger that's consequences can last a lifetime.
1. Chapter 1

Behind finger-painted smudges of deep, rosy violet, fiery clouds nestled the sun in its fading glory, a blood red star that fought long and hard to be seen as the horizon slowly swallowed it whole. Its universal warmth could not win, and sitting from my seat by the small oval window I wordlessly said goodbye to the day and welcomed the night. I watched every second of the sunset. Cherished it even. Then as all my flights go, I was to be interrupted by the clutter of sound around me. Cell phones rang. A business man had a loud coughing fit two rows up. The popping and shutting of compartment doors. My moment that separated my consciousness from the bustle of nearby passengers was gone and already missed as I stared ahead at the seat in front of me in silent despair.

"Ladies and gentlemen," announced a perky, plastic voice. Her smile was tight and no amount of makeup could hide the dark circles pooling under her eyes. The color of her hair was an unnatural shade of blonde bordering a translucent white. I was being judgmental, of course, of the flight stewardess who was simply doing her job.

All the same I get cranky when I'm told what to do. So childish sometimes.

"Please turn off all electronic devices…" she continued, prattling on about safety and our much anticipated departure.

Out the window, my attention admired blue hues that washed the sky like incoming ocean waves. The evening was setting itself up in the atmosphere and I was well beyond prepared. Between my fingers I felt my little savior, a rounded sleeping pill that would shrink my hours in the air to mere moments. As soon as we were off the ground, my slumber would begin. I awaited it almost giddily, choosing to let the minutes pass with my eyes closed shut and head resting back.

The plane slowly started to move down the runway, the humming of its efforts causing my chair to vibrate. I allowed myself to smile subtly at the progress, at the fact that soon I could put Europe behind me and return to familiar soil, to a familiar face that I missed dearly.

"Good evening."

A close voice stirred me back to the present moment. Gentle, but direct. My lids fluttered to see a man lower himself beside me, our seats jostling as he fell into one.

"Hello," I replied.

Immediately, as my eyes fell on him I recognized that the stranger was unconventionally attractive. Dressed in a navy patterned suit that was tailored to his trim frame sat a middle-aged man with smooth skin and burnt ocher eyes. Chiseled, his face was reminiscent of the statues of Ancient Greece, all defined cheek bones and carved lips. Maybe it was the way his hair was parted and neatly combed back. I don't know. Pick a feature. Too handsome, too put together to be real.

"I apologize if I awoke you from your sleep," he said politely. "But it appears that you have lost something."

Resting in the palm of his hand was my sleeping aid. My lips frowned and I took the pill back with a quiet thanks.

"Can't lose this," I added.

"Perhaps you will not need it."

An understated smile spread across my face as I shook my head.

"Oh, no. I definitely will. I'm an inconsistent sleeper when it comes to planes."

The man nodded at my words, but as he looked at me again a quizzical expression ghosted his face.

"I apologize," he then said quietly, "but have we met before?"

After I scanned him again, I determined that we hadn't. What was obvious about the man was that he wasn't American, at least not by birth. It was his voice that suggested so, not too overbearing yet clearly accented by some form of European heritage, from where I had no idea. The more he spoke, the more exotic he became.

"Your face is very familiar to me," the man continued. "If my memory serves me well, then I have seen it recently. If you don't mind me asking, what brought you to London?"

"Not London," I answered. "I was at a conference in Geneva."

It was so small, but I saw emotion race across his eyes like a flicker of firelight. I would even say I saw the man lean closer me, not much, maybe by an inch. Inside I was bracing myself for whatever he was going to tell me, as if this stranger was about to divulge some wicked truth, yet as his mouth opened to speak again he was interrupted by our stewardess.

"Excuse me, sir?" she piped in with a tone that left no room for excuses. "Would you mind attaching your seat belt? We're about to leave the runway."

For a moment, the man simply looked at her with a vacant expression. Then, as if remembering she had said anything in the first place, he offered a slight, close-lipped smile.

"Of course," he replied, his focus abandoning her as he did what she asked.

The plane began picking up speed, the body shaking as we gained power for flight. My eyes closed at the feeling, at the increasing rate that was like an excited pulse of the heart. It built, and built, and built until, hallelujah, the wheels touched nothing but air. Gravity tugged at my skin. We were air born, free as birds. I couldn't help but allow happiness to fill me, to make a smile reappear on my face at the feeling of no longer being tied down to earth, to be heading somewhere I wanted to be for a change. To go home.

As our plane leveled and the sound of the seatbelt sign chimed, I could hear the other passengers around me moving about and turning their electronics back on. I rejoined the real world, and unfortunately the first thing I saw was a pair of sober eyes looking back at me, a small trace of amusement alit within them.

Without saying anything, much to my inner gratitude, the stranger beside me turned away and unclasped his seatbelt buckle. He then rose to open one of the overhead compartments.

"I believe," he then began calmly, "that before we were interrupted, we were discussing where I had possibly seen you before."

"The conference," I prompted.

"Yes, 'Understanding the Complexities of Trauma within the Human Life'."

The man returned to his seat with a leather brief case in hand. Upon seeing my confused expression, he clarified.

"I was very interested in attending myself," he said. "But as it was, Italy was already calling my name."

So he is a psychiatrist or doctor, I thought. His clothes screamed it after all, the freedom of higher up professionalism that permitted peculiar suits and the celebrated respect to back them up. One could've argued that he batted for the business world, or maybe law, but his words regarding the conference disqualified both. Mental health it is.

"Both are beautiful places," I said. "What part of Italy?"

"All over, but most of my time was spent in Florence."

If eyes truly are the windows to a person's soul, I decided then that his were the blacked out windows of an abandoned mansion. Depending on how the light hit them, his irises seemed to change color, going from a reddened brown to a brooding black with the turn of the head. They were both lifeless and enigmatic, vacant yet alluring.

I watched as the man retrieved from his brief case a piece of paper, several drawing pencils, and a kneaded eraser. He proceeded to sketch using the foldable table that was attached to the seats in front of us.

Then, without neglecting his drawing, he asked, "Do you specialize in the field of trauma?"

A few seconds passed as I observed him work. The foreigner had an appealing profile.

"I do," I answered. "May I have a piece of paper?"

His pencil stopped. A pause.

"Of course," he said. From his case, he retrieved another piece and held it out for me to take. I accepted it, our fingers brushing.

"Thank you," I replied while digging in my own bag at my feet. From it, I pulled out a blue ink pen.

During the next ten minutes or so we said nothing, both of us too engrossed in our sketches for conversation. If I was aware of anything it would be how different our techniques sounded. His strokes were quiet, concise, and short in length to make what I assumed to be a thoughtful, planned picture. Mine, however, were definitely not. Hard, quick, and flaked about without much thought, a scrawl of flippant lines were building together on my page to hopefully make my desired image come to life.

My pen was adding more detail when the stranger beside me decided to speak again. With the same cordial tone, the man asked, "Are you going to take your sleeping pill?"

The question skipped across my mind for a second. My shoulders shrugged. I hadn't realized that I completely forgot about the aid.

"Mm, maybe," I replied. "I still have about half an hour to determine that. Do you normally socialize on plane rides?"

"On the rare occasion with the right company. Typically, I am alone on them. This, however, is a welcomed change."

"I'm glad."

"Do you keep to yourself on plane rides?"

"Yes."

"I hope I am not disturbing you then."

"Don't worry. You're just the right amount of people so far."

The man's pencil stopped moving again, causing me to glance from my paper to gaze upon his work. To my great surprise, the drawing he had begun was absolutely extravagant. An architectural masterpiece was neatly started on his page, the lines and contrast executed flawlessly and with so much detail. What appeared to be an immaculate cathedral was carefully taking shape, its terraces half-shaded and its steps sharp. Behind it were the identifying lines of a city's horizon, the other buildings forming into an urban dream. It was startling that he was able to complete so much in so little time.

"All from memory?" I offered, my eyes brightening.

The man nodded, and though I'm pretty sure he was attempting to hide it, a small swell of pride touched his features.

"It's all I have to go by," he said. "I am not one to take photographs."

"It is very beautiful," I said earnestly. "And yet, you don't know where you've seen me."

"I will in due time. We have several hours after all. May I?"

I leaned back as he leaned closer, our shoulders rubbing slightly as he peered over my table. Being as I am, wary and over intrinsic, every detail of his proximity filtered through my mind in rapid fire. The stitching of his suit jacket. The coloration of his mouth. His clean scent that was practically wafting in the air, I was keenly aware of it all. A few seconds, that's all it took for me to size him up again, to try and picture the man for who he was, to gather the evidence and evade any form of getting close.

Keep safe. Know everyone to their atoms.

On the outside, I made it seem that nothing was wrong and simply allowed him to look at my sketch. It was a portrait of him, or at least the beginning shades and lines of the man's attractive face. I watched him closely as he looked it over, a smile teasing at his own lips.

"You compliment me too much," he said as he sat up.

"You're easy to compliment."

"In that case," he began in a hushed voice. "I am called to reveal one of my fatal flaws to you."

At first, I believed the man was being serious. Wait, let me rephrase that: For a second I loathed that the man was being serious. I listen to "fatal flaws" for a living, some uncomfortable, most intimate. To hear one from an absolute stranger at this point in my journey home was an unpleasant thought. I quickly studied his face again, and upon seeing another one of his faint smiles tugging slightly at his mouth, I slowly relaxed.

"Confess your sins," I said with a wave of my hand.

Amusement graced him momentarily before he continued.

"I," he stated, "am a person who enjoys getting to know whomever I have the pleasure of having in my company for extended periods of time."

"Say it isn't so."

"I know. A grave triste I am cursed with. In this case, madam, it would be you this evening. Also, I must take in consideration that I cannot recall where I have seen you before. Please tell me your name."

I hesitated, something I always do when first introduced to new company. Despite the years of therapy and knowing oneself, meeting people can sometimes be hard for me, especially when said individuals are as intimidating as my fellow traveler. Not to say that he was meaning to be intimidating. This man had been polite, courteous, and with enough personality to be playful, but not intrusive. I suppose I was still getting used to how put together he came off. I don't know. My hesitation was only a split-second pause before I chose to give the man what he wanted.

"Ada," I replied. "Ada Ives."

There it was again, that tiny sparkle of life that flit momentarily in the blackened windows. I barely caught it. He chose to reach down to his brief case again and rifle through its contents. The man then pulled out the latest copy of the Journal of Abnormal Psychiatry, its cover worn and weathered. Frowning, I recognized the issue and already knew what page he was going to search for. His fingers began flicking through the Journal and sure enough, a featurette of my face was gracing the article the man stopped on.

"And the mystery is solved," he declared. "I enjoyed your article on tactile bonding very much."

"It was fun to write."

He glanced to the side, thinking.

"Strange, not many would use the word 'fun' when describing the topic of bonding," he said.

"Oh yes, especially those who have a hard time doing it. No new news there."

"Adults, I can better handle, but your work with children and adolescents sounds…challenging."

My shoulders shrugged off his comment after having so many similar conversations over and over again throughout the years. The bottom line was that some people like kids and some don't. I get it. To be listening to the needs of adults sounded lousy to me while others are paralyzed at the thought of talking to a five year old. At least with children and teenagers the emotions are rawer and less controlled at times. Teenagers can be a tad bit more tricky, however.

"People are challenging and I like a challenge," I said. "So I suppose in the end it works out. What happens during our years as children shapes us into what we become, and I get them in my office when the wounds are fresh."

"That is true. The early years of human life are crucial to development. I am curious. In your opinion, how exposed do you believe children really are to the world?" he asked.

"Enough. I mean, there's TV, movies, music, etcetera. Parents, good and bad. Religion. Whatever their friends say or do, or claim to do. I see kids as little fish swimming around in the ocean. It's way too big for them to handle, and without some form of positive relationship they don't have a chance."

"That is true for some," he said after a short pause. "But there are solitary fish in the sea as well. What do you make of them?"

Our proximity had shrank, I noticed, since our conversation made a slight turn to our current topic. The stranger appeared entranced in hearing whatever answer I had, as if he had a special interest.

"I guess the question is," I stated slowly, "Do you they want to be alone?"

His eyes looked away from mine when I finished. The man was no longer smiling, but appeared distant, as if he was lost in thought. For the sake of the mood, I chose to change the subject.

"I must tell you, I have a fatal flaw, too," I whispered.

At my last statement, his focus snapped back to me. What little emotions the stranger chose to express, they all fled from him. As the night had crept through, the aisle lights were shut off and only a few bulbs were lit over scattered seats. The shadows of the cabin darkened his eyes and sharpened his other features. Somehow, the man in the patterned navy suit became more intimidating in one single second. Somehow, I was able to press on with those intense eyes of his burning holes into my skull.

"I don't know you, sir," I said in mock sternness. "What I can tell about you is that you're a psychiatrist, but you let me in on that one. Despite learning who I am, you have neglected to share with me your name, and if we are going to be stuck together for the next several hours, then knowing that much about you alone would be a blessing. My fatal flaw is that, on the rare occasion that I find someone interesting beside me for hours in a small enclosure, I must get to know the depths of who they are. No buts about it."

Slowly, the same flames of interest piqued within him again. I was relieved to see his mouth soften from its firm line, and his face relax in general at hearing my words. Nothing too emotive, but I would go as far to say that he smiled at my minor attempt at playfulness.

"A thousand apologies, Dr. Ives," he said. "I knew not that we both suffered from the same affliction."

"You're forgiven, sir. And you may call me Ada."

"Ada," he corrected with a small bow. "You have every right to be insulted by my misbehavior. I promise you, I take manners very seriously and am greatly ashamed. Considering that I shared my paper with you, a great leap of intimacy on my part, let me bless you also with my name as you requested."

With his hand extended out towards me in a gentlemanly fashion, he said, "My name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I work in the field of psychiatry, as you correctly assumed."

I took his hand, feeling his calloused fingers and the small squeeze they offered.

"There, I feel better now," I said as I returned to my drawing.

"As do I," he responded, though he didn't pick up his pencil. "I must warn you, however, that knowing the depths of who I am may be a challenge."

I nodded.

"The same goes for me, Dr. Lecter, but as I said before, I do like a challenge."

Dr. Lecter watched me as I drew. I could feel them, his eyes as I continued to draw his face.

"You're making me nervous," I confessed after the first few minutes of his observation passed.

"I wouldn't dare do so on purpose, Ada," he answered.

"Can you move your head? Just a little to the left, please."

He obeyed and I looked to him and the paper, my pen in constant movement.

"What were you doing in Italy instead of hearing my lecture on the latest findings on attachment theory?" I asked.

"I have been meaning to revisit Italy for some time. Work has been, as you can understand, trying over the past few years. A vacation was much needed."

"I hear the food's phenomenal. Then again, that's sort of common knowledge, isn't it?"

He chuckled. It was a tender sound.

"It is and for good reason. I appreciate foreign tastes. The brains and knowledge of different people from faraway places change the cooking experience exponentially."

"Do you cook?"

"Yes. It is a beneficial outlet for me and my work."

"As is drawing, it seems. Never knew I was in the company of a renaissance man."

"What are your outlets?" he asked.

A yawn and the stiffness of my neck told me to give my sketch a break. Putting the pen down, I stretched my arms above my head.

"Oh," I half-said, half-groaned. "Drawing, writing, all stereo-typical things. Nothing extraordinary."

"I doubt that."

I peered at him from the side of my eyes.

"Thank you, but extraordinary, I am not."

Dr. Lecter looked at me for a short moment as if deciding to say something or choose to stay silent. I was beginning to frown when at last a decision was made within his mind.

"Based on your published views that I have read multiple times on handling the psychological well-being of teenagers and your heartfelt approach to meeting their needs, I must assume that the woman behind such views can be nothing less than extraordinary."

My eyes immediately met his, and despite myself I found my cheeks burning sharply at his words. He offered no cheesy smile or blush of his own, only stared into my eyes as if my thoughts were racing across them in big bold letters. Then again, I felt so stupidly obvious beside him he probably didn't have to look too hard to know that I was astonished by his compliment.

Finding my voice, I parted my lips to thank Dr. Lecter for his kindness only to have someone speak instead.

"Espresso? Champagne? Wine?"

We averted our eyes to the aisle. The stewardess with the heavy makeup, the same one whose perky voice was as genuine as plastic surgery was standing there waiting. The best part was that her questions weren't so much aimed at both Dr. Lecter and myself, but more towards the handsome man beside me. Her body curved to face his, chest forward and eyes hooded. After taking in her appearance, I let my attention fall on the face of Dr. Lecter, who surprisingly appeared unappreciative. He seemed absolutely annoyed. It was the first full emotion that the man had expressed thus far in our flight together, and based on the way his eyes slightly narrowed and his jaw clenched I felt that he was trying to contain his grievances with a great amount of effort.

"Red wine," he replied to her coolly. He then looked to me with soft expectation. "Would you like a glass?"

Shaking my head, I said, "Oh, no thank you. I'm not a wine person."

"Then what would you prefer?" he pressed. "My treat."

"You don't have to-"

"But I insist."

There was no use refusing him. That truth rang loud and clear. There was a charm to this Dr. Lecter, a certain spell. Not too forceful, not too overbearing. Just the right amount of smile to make you agree.

I saw what he was doing. It was my living to see the controlling aspect of human kind after all. That, and I'm naturally paranoid of everyone.

I turned to the stewardess.

"Whiskey, please," I said.

Dr. Lecter's fair eyebrows raised at that, and as our glasses clinked and we sipped our drinks, his eyes never left mine.

"You are surprising me more and more, Ada," said his smooth voice.

"Don't underestimate me," I said. "As you say, I am extraordinary after all."

"That you are. Where is home for you?"

After a long drink, I answered, "Seattle."

"I have never been."

"You should visit there someday. Always something interesting going on."

"Perhaps I will."

I finished my glass and set it on the fold out table. Dr. Lecter stared at it.

"Would you like another?" he asked.

"Yes, and I would also like to know where home is for you."

The man flagged down the stewardess who happily listened and provided him another glass of whiskey. I openly smirked at her disappointment in seeing the doctor hand me the glass instead.

"My home is in Baltimore," he replied as he subtly took in the aroma of his wine. "Or was. I'm in the process of choosing a new home."

A silence fell in between us as we sipped. I chose to not look directly at him, though by then his body was facing mine and mine his. Our proximities were also closer, not in a suggestive way, but certainly not in a way that suggested complete strangers. The effects of the alcohol were slowly swimming their way throughout my body, my mood swaying to a more relaxed state. It was a dangerous thing, me buzzed.

"What are you thinking, Ms. Ada? That is, I am assuming you are a miss," said Dr. Lecter.

"I am a miss," I replied. "And as to what I am thinking that is for me to know solely, Dr. Lecter."

"Please, you may call me Hannibal, and why suddenly so coy?"

"Because I would like the halls of my mind to be unexplored by those I just met."

"That is understandable," he responded with a short nod. "Though, I must admit that I am now more curious."

I took my finishing sip of my drink and set it next to the first glass.

"Tell you what," I started, "I answer whatever you wish and you answer whatever I throw at you."

A light chuckle past his lips before he set his glass next to my own.

"Surely, this is a useful interviewing tactic for teenagers, no?" he asked.

"Works almost every time. A simple game of reciprocation. The key though is knowing when the other person is lying, and Mr. Hannibal, I am an expert at seeing a lie."

"I believe it," he replied. "Fine. I will play. Who will go first?"

"I will since I'm a lady."

"But of course. Ask away."

"What is the worst thing you have done in the last twenty-four hours?"

A thoughtful expression spread over his features and I grinned at seeing his closed smile show itself once more.

"In the last twenty-four hours," he mused. "I knowingly littered in the parking lot of my hotel."

My enthusiasm immediately faded.

"Lie."

The man cocked his head at my accusation, his smile still in place.

"Is it?" he asked.

With some authenticity, I sat back against the window and squared my shoulders. His brows raised slightly.

"It is. I am well versed in the art of lying, sir, and your attempt to evade the truth was sloppy. Pitiful, too. And, well, just rude, Mr. Hannibal."

Though I meant my words, I said them in the same level of politeness that he has given me. I believe that if one is going to call someone as one sees them, he or she should at least have the courtesy of using the proper honorific.

The man said nothing at first, allowing his eyes to assess me and I am assuming the meaning behind my words. I was sure to make my face as expressionless as humanly possible.

"A thousand apologies once again, Ms. Ada," he relented without a smile. "Rudeness appalls me."

"Oh, I'm sure it does."

"You have no idea."

"Tell me the truth then. What is the worst thing you have done today?"

"Why are you so interested in knowing?" he countered.

"Because you lied."

"That's not the entire answer, is it Ms. Ada?"

The way he bored into my eyes with his own, it was disarming. He was using them, his eyes, like a scalpel and tweezers.

"Is this your analytical side, Hannibal?"

"Yes. To be fair, I am not always in control of my analytical side. Neither are you, it seems."

Neither of us said a word after his comment, our attention held hostage to one another. What started out as fun banter suddenly felt heavy and more serious. My instincts were burning with curiosity. They always do when I detect heavy doses of charm and then a lie. One could argue that the question I asked was too prying in itself and could understand why anyone would lie. But then there were my instincts. They told me something was more peculiar about the man in the tailored blue suit. I didn't want to play anymore.

"What are you thinking, Ms. Ada?"

My teeth nibbled on my lower lip, a habit that emerged just when I'm about to make a major decision. The only time Dr. Lecter's eyes left my own during our spiced conversation was to look at my mouth. They lingered there for an extra second before returning to my gaze.

"The truth is," I started slowly. "That I wanted to play this game because I know that I will never see you again."

"You don't necessarily know that to be true, Ada. Our paths may cross again someday."

"I highly doubt that."

Dr. Lecter sat further back in his seat, his head tilted slightly upward as he dissected my mind with his gaze.

"Do you struggle with attachment?" he then asked.

"It's still my turn-"

"Do you?"

My lips pursed instantly. Dr. Lecter did not show any form of reaction at all, only that of a man patiently waiting for an answer.

Did he really know? Was I that obvious? But of course I was. Anger began to pulse through my mood, a stinging self-hatred for allowing my defenses to be so easily seen. In trying to throw up my walls towards an unassuming man, I had actually waved a great big red flag in his face. I had opened myself up to a psychiatrist of all people, a walking eye for seeing the strange behaviors of mankind, mine included.

I felt myself slowly retracting, but instead of wearing his smugness at catching me as most psychiatrists would, Dr. Lecter returned to his previous posture, his face softening.

"The worst thing I did in the last twenty-four hours," he started quietly, "was debate killing a man that I shared an elevator with this morning."

I frowned.

"Really?"

"Oh yes. I was about to step in the elevator car when the man chose to push me aside. He was talking loudly on his cell phone and failed to acknowledge me, much less apologize. During our dissension, he yelled many profanities into his phone. It was very vulgar."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

A sigh left his mouth before he said, "As am I. To my dismay, he shoved his way out of the elevator before I had the chance to snatch him. Also, I had a plane to catch."

"So you had no time to end his life. Lucky soul."

"Fortune was certainly on his side."

I allowed myself to lightly laugh at the turn of conversation, at the fact that I was actually talking to this serene stranger on an airplane trip. Dr. Lecter, too, relaxed at our talk's end, the skin around his somber eyes crinkling in the slightest as he allowed himself another sip of wine.

The slight buzz that my whiskey had given me was slowly making me tired. I felt it, the dizzying heaviness that crawled up from my toes and weighed down my arms. My eye lids felt heavier, too.

"Well, this has been fun," I yawned. "But, I think I'm going to attempt to sleep. We have about six more hours after all."

"Very well, then. Despite the fact that you are skipping my turn to properly question you, Ms. Ada, I wish you the happiest of dreams."

Dr. Lecter turned his frame forward while I leaned my head against the rounded window frame. The last thing I recall looking at before I slumbered was the opaque reflection of the man beside me, his eyes looking forward and unblinking. Part of me could have sworn he caught me staring at his mouth.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at John F. Kennedy International Airport! Thank you for travelling with us this evening. We hope to see you soon!"

The hum of people swarmed in the air again, along with the blaring voice of that cursed flight stewardess. My eyes blinked about before giving up and fully opening to the world, adjusting slowly to the light of the aisle of the plane.

"You rested through the whole flight. Not once did you wake up as you had feared."

My eyes widened instantly at how close the voice sounded and the feeling of hot warmth that touched my hair. To my horror, I realized that my head was not resting against the seat beside me, but on something warm and firm. Pressed against my cheek, patterned material and all, was Dr. Lecter's arm. I rose away from him, my face heating up at how the man was clearly amused at finding me there. Or, to make things worse, he had allowed me to sleep on him through the rest of the flight without moving. I couldn't tell which was worse.

"I'm sorry," I muttered as my fingers ran through my dark hair.

"There is no need to apologize," he said politely. "You needed your rest."

"Clearly."

A small nod and the man rose from his seat to open the overhead compartment. I gathered my things and stood waiting for my turn to step off the plane.

As we breached the entrance to the airport's waiting areas, Dr. Lecter fell in step with me.

"Thank you for the paper, the whiskey, and the conversation, Dr. Lecter. I had a lot of fun with you."

"I insist that you call me by my first name, Ms. Ada. Also, thank you for the pleasantness of your company. The flight would have been an entirely different experience without it."

"Oh!" I suddenly exclaimed. My steps ceased immediately as I dug in my carryon and pulled out my drawing from the flight. "This is for you."

Our fingers brushed again as Dr. Lecter took the paper from my extended hand. The sensation lingered on my fingertips.

"A very good likeness, though I still believe you compliment me too much."

"And I still believe that you are easy to compliment, Hannibal."

We stood by our gate facing one another, and though I enjoyed the presence of Dr. Lecter, an invisible force, otherwise known as the time of my next flight out to Seattle, was mentally pulling me away.

"I better be off," I said.

"I as well."

"Dr. Lecter?"

"Hannibal."

I smiled genuinely up at him. He was taller than I had realized.

"Hannibal," I started, "You may ask me my question now."

"I'm saving it."

"Saving it?"

"For when I see you next time, Ms. Ada."

"But we won't see each other ever again, Mr. Hannibal, remember? That's the plan."

"Perhaps we won't, but there is always the hopeful possibility that we will, and on that day, I will ask of the depths of who you are."

I didn't need a mirror to know that I was blushing. This man had a knack for making my face heat up, it seemed.

The hotness that pricked my cheeks was clearly felt as I stood before Dr. Hannibal Lecter at JFK Airport, my hair a mess and my eyes still tired. Dr. Lecter stood with his brief case and in his patterned suit that fit his frame nicely, amber eyes deep and handsome face giving nothing away of the thoughts within his mind.

Then, in one fluidic motion, his hand reached towards my face. I saw it in a slowed pace, something perceivable, and just as his fingers were about to graze my cheek, I moved away. My body stepped just out of range. Wordlessly, I turned and walked away from Dr. Lecter and towards my next gate that would return me to Seattle.

Only once did I look over my shoulder at the man I just met. He was still standing there, his regal gaze still looking out at me, and even from the great distance between my form and his, I saw Dr. Lecter smirk.

It haunted my thoughts all the way into my next seat on the next plane. I sat alone that flight, and I found that I missed having someone intelligent to talk to. I sighed while watching the sun return to its post high in the sky, my brain already picturing the brilliancy that is a Seattle sunset.

When I reached down and opened my carry-one, I frowned at seeing something unfamiliar nestled inside it. It was a rolled piece of paper held together by a paperclip. With curiosity brimming in my mind's cup, I carefully unrolled the paper and took in the sight of a pencil portrait drawn finely on the paper's surface. Immediately, I recognized the face to be my own, sleeping, my shut eyes and long lashes resting on my cheeks. As my eyes examined the work, I discovered a small note jotted in the corner of the page.

It read, "Dear Ada Ives, Let us play more games in the future, shall we? I enjoy them very much when playing them with you. Best, Hannibal Lecter."

* * *

><p><strong>All rights to this beautiful television series rightfully belong to NBC. I am simply an incredibly appreciative fan, low and humble beneath the greatness that is expelled by the writers of <em>Hannibal<em>. I hope that you have enjoyed the beginning of my work. Best, TCR.**


	2. Chapter 2

"I want to know."

Fingers laced tightly, so tight that it stiffened the joints of my hands until they were numb. My teeth grit almost as tightly as my hands did, a smarting hurt that pulsated in my jaw. Not caused by pain, no of course not, but by the sensations of pure, hungry pleasure.

"I want to know the depths of who you are."

His mouth encompassed mine, greedy with hot breath like fire. I moaned at feeling it and him against me, at the force pressed against the junction of my legs. Dominating and strong, he grinded hard. A gasp caught in my throat. He shoved harder.

"All of you."

Reality hit me like a blow to the head. Alone, I awoke in a bedroom with robin's egg walls and Christmas lights strung out all over the ceiling like clumps of stars. Their little yellow bulbs were still lit up as the morning rays poured in through my large windows, the sunlight just short of reaching the end of my comforter. I huffed and rubbed my eyes as the feelings of arousal left me, the consequences of another bizarre dream fleeing until the next night. Until another episode of strange sleep took me whole.

A loud, bellowing yawn then entered the air. Glancing to the other side of my bed I saw the near lifeless body of a gray pit bull, his stalky frame curled against a pillow. His name was Bro, and he was just that to me. A lovable protector. My constant bedmate who slept more than I did and kept me company when I struggled to sleep at night. Already, his eyes were closing to get in another ten minutes, and I smiled at seeing him there, glad that the dog was able to chase away the strange dreams, as well as my imagined fears.

"Let's get some breakfast and call Patti," I told him, ruffling his soft face. He yawned again, blue eyes blinking soberly.

Lying was something that came easy to me. As awful as it sounded, it was a skill that I took small pride in after years upon years of calculated practice. It insured protection or at least gave some veiled sense of control. Lying kept me feeling safe. Pretty much everyone expected me to be back in Seattle by the next day as I had falsely told them, but not Patti. She knew. Patti could never be lied to because the woman could smell a lie better than I could ever aspire to.

Sixty-five but younger than ever, Patti was like a youthful owl. She was small, compact, and marathon ready at all times. We used to run together, but I could sense that she was always going easy on me and not getting much out of the exercise. Her white hair and wisdom said elder, but her unwavering attitude and active lifestyle sang adventurer.

"More sex dreams?" she chimed as we walked about the farmer's market, the bright colors of veggies and fruits scattered about in big bins and crates.

The desperate joining of lips and unholy friction reverberated to the forefront of my mind, but I quickly tucked away the memories of my dream and answered her.

"Yep. Just like the night before. I don't know what's gotten into me."

That was a lie. I've had the dreams ever since I arrived back in Seattle. You see, sometimes I try to lie to Patti for the sake of trying. And on the rare, such as then in the market, I succeed. Or, she lets me believe so.

"Well, obviously you have met someone that makes you desire intimacy, or, at least reminded you of your needs to be physically intimate with another human being. That and maybe you just need to get laid."

My lips pursed. Leave it to Patti to just come right out and say it.

"I don't know if it's that simple," I muttered.

My fingers were prodding a carton of avocadoes, their skins leathery and cold.

"Those might be too hard."

"Yeah, they are," I said, moving on with Bro on his leash and Patti scouting ahead of me.

The farmer's market was busy and bustling, a good sign for the community and a great sign for my inability to hear the wise, yet abhorred honesty of my neighbor Patricia, or Patti, Comstock. As we wove our way through the many venders, stopping twice to buy a large bag of sweet potatoes and some onions, I couldn't help but think on what exactly Patti could be referring to. True, my dreams could point to my need for sex, or intimacy, but no one who could have planted those desires in my head came to mind. The conference in Geneva yielded no prospects and since coming home a week ago I've seen only Patti.

"Do you recognize who it is in the dream?" she pressed, offering me a leaf of basil to smell at a booth.

As I breathed in the fragrance, I shook my head.

"I never see his face. It's all shadows and blacked out somehow."

"Ah, well, I'm telling you, kid, letting your hair down every once and awhile will do you some good."

I withheld a sigh, choosing instead to look off at a table piled with Shitake mushrooms.

"One-night stands aren't my thing," I replied.

"I'm not telling you to be a floozy and have a one-night stand," Patti admonished. "You know that's not what I meant. What I'm saying is that you're so uptight lately. All you do is work and spend time with those kids, which, isn't a bad thing, but it shouldn't be your only means of socializing, missy. Go out on a date. Meet more people. I thought Geneva would be like a vacation."

"Geneva was great. Very beautiful. I even saw a bit of London before I flew out, but in the end I was there for work, not play."

"And you're saying to me that during that _whole_ trip you never encountered a single man who caught your eye?"

The doubt was dripping from her words, and even as she went on about what I should have enjoyed from my time out of the country, I couldn't help but wonder if maybe my lack of desire for people in general was becoming too unhealthy. Understandably, this would pose a problem for any normal person. However, with my past and story it made perfect sense.

As if reading my mind, Patti asked, "When are you going to visit Adrian?"

"Tomorrow, should his psychiatrist allow it."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Because Adrian's antsy." After seeing her brow furrow, I added, "He hasn't done anything, but he's just…antsy."

"How did he handle the news of your leaving?"

"Well. Surprisingly well. I mean, as good as Adrian can, I guess."

Our small band had wandered from the market and towards another busy street a block over. Families and other parties such as ours stalked by one another, chattering on about the weather as grey clouds stirred above our heads. Patti gestured for us to sit at an empty table outside a café.

"As good as Adrian can doesn't mean much," she commented warily as she plucked a menu from the table's surface. "I'm just proud that you allowed yourself to wait a week before you went to see him. That's progress."

"Thanks, and no, I really think he was okay with me leaving. He told me to have fun and to educate the world on the importance of relating to others."

"Have you talked to Mitzy?"

Ivory skin and bright blue eyes entered my mind. Picturing my sister the last time I saw her was surreal. She looked much better than when she was with Adrian. Her face then and now was so opposite, as if the expressions she wore were donned by two different people entirely.

"Yeah, we Skyped yesterday afternoon. Asked if I could help her move some boxes to their lake house. When I got back from London, of course."

"Sounds like Mitzy. How is she doing?"

"Fine, I suppose. She and Blake were just cleaning their attic out. Oh, and Andy's birthday is coming up."

"Is he going to be six or five?"

"Six. Mitzy keeps asking me what toy will better impact his desire to play with other children, like there's a magic power in Hasbro products or something."

Patti's eyes rolled like the clouds. Anything regarding Mitzy and her parental paranoia tended to have that effect.

"Well, glad you're back," she breathed. "Though I wish you'd treat yourself more than you did while away from home. Praying for you to bring home a man must've been a long shot."

"Its official then: I'm going to die alone. Even God is shrugging his shoulders."

"Don't say that," she scolded. "You're a beautiful woman. There's a man out there willing to breakthrough that stubborn wall of yours. Now, what do you have planned before you go see Adrian?"

The question I've been dreading. It finally had arrived. With a short breath of air, I gathered the bravery and came out and said it.

"I have a lecture tomorrow morning. At the university."

Her icy blue eyes widened instantly.

"Ada-"

"They asked a month ago!"

"You couldn't even wait a full week? You had to start right away?"

"Well, yeah, they asked a month ago."

A huff of contempt sharply left her lips, and I smiled weakly at her disdain.

"What are you possibly going to lecture for the university now?" asked Patti. "They always ask for you."

I frowned a bit, my fingers picking at the table in an attempt to distract myself.

"Sibling relations," I mumbled.

"What?"

I said in a much clearer voice, "They want me to discuss bonding between siblings."

"Sons of bitches."

"It'll be fine."

"Cancel. Say you're sick."

"I can't. Too petty and I'm not a child."

A firm line formed on her mouth, and Patti, too, stared off into the surroundings, her thoughts a mystery. Actually, her thoughts weren't so mysterious when it came to hearing what people always requested me to lecture on. Patti's resentment was practically palpable, its intensity rolling off her body in venomous waves.

"Do you need me to sit in?" she questioned sternly. "To fight off the overzealous?"

I shook my head and reached down to pet Bro.

"No. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Thank you though. I mean, I'll keep the topics general and what not. I don't think I'll draw from Adrian at all."

"But they will. All those nosey reporters and psychiatrists, or just the snobby Psych. Major who wants to prove something as a sophomore…"

"Hopefully, people will be respectful and leave the topic of Adrian alone. I'm sure things will go great."

I knew she didn't believe me. I didn't either. We both knew that I'm more of a realist and that optimism seemed like a crummy fib rather than a stab at positive thinking.

"Oh, Ada," she breathed. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Just buy me lunch. Walnut chicken salad and iced tea, thanks."

By the next day, the clouds overhead continued to swirl darkly in the sky, a storm brewing like a witch's pot. As I parked my car and stepped on to the black tar pavement of the university's parking lot I was inwardly cursing myself for not bringing an umbrella. To be rained on would be a wonderful plus to how I was feeling. Anxious. Bitter. Tired. All of those things combined. To be rained on would be the perfect picture of my mood for all to see.

"Dr. Ives!" greeted the university's head of the psychology department, his mouth tight with a forced smile. As expected, he was waiting for me at the door to the lecture hall. I loathed him.

"So glad that you accepted our invitation to speak," he continued. "We were worried that you would hesitate considering…"

The open-ended drawl of the unmentionable. The trail that led to the wordless question suspended in the air. The understood incomplete sentence. The ellipses held on the tongue of those who craved to know the details of my most personal encounter with attachment, yet were too caught up in the scholarly aspect of the encounter and not enough on the human side of it to bother with sincere manners.

It disgusted me.

"Oh, Frank," I replied in a tone that I knew was causing him to fight the urge to cringe. "I haven't even started yet. Best not kiss my ass too soon."

Before he could say a thing, I smiled openly at my portly colleague and entered the packed lecture hall. The hum of chatter was alive in the air as I stood at the podium, my eyes conservatively scanning the audience. Students and faculty of various ages and credentials eyed me, some with eyes full of the hungry desire to learn while others, I could tell, were already prepared to jump at the mention of Adrian. After checking the time, I cleared my throat to begin.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Ives, and I am so glad to see so many faces this morning. As some of you know, I specialize in trauma, more specifically with children in crisis and whatever goes along under that broad title. Today I was asked to discuss with you all the subject of sibling relationships."

Some of the members of the audience perked up. As I drifted from the podium, I met their eyes.

"Many of you, I can imagine, are well versed on the subject of siblings, be it an older or younger brother or sister. What makes these forms of relationships so interesting is that the dynamics of such a system within the family can come in different varieties. There are step brothers and sisters, halves, adopted, estranged, etcetera. Even within the varieties are subtypes, such as the adopted child who comes from foster care, or the sister that you never knew existed who shows up at your door and lives with you until she is a full-fledged adult. Regardless of the situation, we, as children, develop some form of relationship with our siblings, healthy or otherwise."

"Now, I know what most of you are wanting me to talk about, and that's the unhealthy kind, the siblings whose relationship ends up causing the family a lot of grief. But, I want you to change your thinking while you're here with me. Don't seek out the bad in these kids. You'll get it for sure if you seek it out. It just won't be who the kids are, but a projection of what you want to see in them. Be patient. Just sit and observe."

"You see, I believe that children are like little fish in a big ocean. There's a whole world full of wonder and danger, places to explore that are both interesting and overwhelming. When we, child or not, are faced with something that is too much for our lives to handle in the moment, what do we turn to? Depending on who you are you might say God, or work, or friends, or, as most would say, family. We rely on those who are closest to us."

"Ideally, trauma brings people closer together once the dust resettles in their lives. That is the dream ending to a tragic story, but it takes time, and the right relationships between family members for it to work out. Before we dive in, are there any questions?"

To my dismay, a hand rose in the middle section.

"Yes?" I prompted.

"Yeah, uh, you work with children who are often diagnosed with anti-personality disorder, right?"

On the inside, I was screaming. The conversation was already heading towards a place that I didn't want it to.

"I have encountered the diagnosis before, yes," I answered politely.

"Okay, in working with those kids, how much would you say _they _rely on siblings? I mean, like to what extent is it a relationship and less of a means to getting what they want?"

"That's a good question," I said. "I personally don't possess the mindset of a child who is diagnosed with-"

"But you grew up with one."

And there it was. The sharpened dagger that stabbed the heart of what people wanted to talk about, the prayers of the psychology department fulfilled. The end of the unmentionable sentence.

"One, what?" I said sternly.

At my question, the smugness that the student had splayed across his face from broaching the subject was instantly removed. Behind his glasses, his eyes were wide with embarrassment. From where I stood I was able to see how flushed his cheeks became.

"If you are referring to my brother Adrian Ives, then let me correct you on a few details," I said coolly. Turning to the rest of the audience, I said, "My brother was never diagnosed with anti-personality disorder as a child and while we're at it, nor is he a psychopath."

A pause. Most of the audience averted their eyes from my sight. The moment of silence was short and heavy, but in my peripheral vision I saw another hand dare to raise itself from the sea of people.

"Yes?"

"I think we all would like to hear what your brother's diagnosis is, according to your own opinion, Dr. Ives. I mean, just to further dismiss the previous, um, diagnosis, mam."

My jaw tightened, but I was not nearly as angry as I was at the second student than I was at the first. The second, another young man, had a more gentle tone.

"This," I began, "is the last question that I will be answering regarding my brother. Stemming from our shared time in the foster care system, it is believed that as a child he suffered from severe reactive attachment disorder. After several years of therapy, it is something that he continues to work on. That is all I will divulge on the subject. Now, moving on…"

The lecture continued, and after hearing the ending applause of those in the lecture hall, I felt a great amount of relief flood my body. Students and professors stopped by the podium to offer their thoughts, thanks, and questions, and I listened to, your welcomed, and answered them all to the best of my ability. It was a blur of sound, all of it, because in the back of my brain, I could still hear the phrase of the first student in my head. "But you grew up with one," he had said with such certainty, as if he walked through the years living with Adrian, too. The second student had later apologized to me at the podium, and with all my might I said I forgave him.

Which I did, but if I was honest about one thing it would be that I could never forgive the first student. I don't have it in me, you see, to give forgiveness to anyone who says something so disarming against my brother. I just can't. Not in a million years.

"Thank you again for speaking, Dr. Ives," said the psychology head.

"You're welcome."

"What's your schedule look like for next month? Would you be able to give another lecture on sibling-"

"Most likely not, Dr. Preston, if your student body continues to be so forward."

A smirk pulled at the man's flaky lips, causing my temper to boil like hellfire.

"Oh, come on, Ada," he teased. "You know that people can't help themselves."

"Well, maybe such people should try harder."

"Ada, come on, you have a _gold mine_ in your own family! Think of all the research you can conduct from Adrian alone. How could you not take advantage of him? He's your twin, a RAD kid, currently institutionalized-"

I took a small step closer to the man, my face directly in his personal space.

"James, if you say another word about my brother or how "advantageous" studying him would be, then I will personally see to it that your essay on the development of PTSD child therapy _never_ sees the light of day, much less the office of the review board of _any_ psychology journal on this planet, do you understand?"

"Ada-"

"That essay or any other essay you decide to shove out from this day on. Is that what you want? Because I can dial Dr. Anderson from the APA right now if you prefer. I provided your numbingly boring department a pick-me-up today, let's admit it, so if you want a smidge of dignity left to your name, I suggest that you shut up and leave me alone."

My colleague glared at me for a slight moment before stepping back and slowly leaving the hall. I watched as he stalked off, my eyes only leaving the back of his fat skull to briefly take in the appearance of an individual who still lingered by the podium. It was a man dressed in dark jeans, a black sweater, and a ball cap that shadowed his eyes. I barely regarded him as I turned back to my things and continued to angrily shove them in my book bag.

"What he said was very disrespectful," said the man's voice. "I am sorry that your family is under such public scrutiny."

"It is what it is," I breathed as my hands finished gathering my belongings.

"Do you need help?"

By then, the hall was empty, save for myself and the stranger I was speaking with. I knew not what at first, but something was oddly familiar about his voice. I couldn't place it.

"Um, no, I'm fine," I said.

Despite my words, I watched as the stranger grabbed my work folder from the podium, as well as my laptop case.

"I insist," he stated.

Immediately, I stopped what I was doing and allowed my attention to hone in on the man in the ball cap.

"I knew I recognized your voice," I told him, my eyes squinting as I peeked at the shadows of his face.

"Miss Ada," he replied with a small smile and a slight nod of the head.

His features were still as remarkable as I had remembered, a handsome face coupled nicely with a peculiarly accented voice. Even if it had only been a few days since I saw him last, I had forgotten how tall he was, how much my head had to tilt just to look into his enigmatic eyes. He stood before me almost regally, despite being without that fancy tailored suit.

"I'm happy to see you again, Dr. Lecter," I found myself saying.

"As am I to see you, Miss Ada. That was not, however, what I was expecting to hear from you considering that you were so set on not seeing me ever again. Also, I must continue to insist that you call me Hannibal."

Sliding the strap of my book bag over one shoulder, I said, "And I must insist, Hannibal, that you quit underestimating me. I always have room for manners. I'm not rude to everyone when I'm flustered."

Together, we walked out of the lecture hall and through the department building. My eyes fixated only on what was ahead of me, and not on the attractive doctor who strode beside my person. The man was just as gentlemanly as I could recall, and I became amused at how many times Dr. Lecter made sure to walk slightly ahead of me when we approached a new entryway, always prepared to hold the door open for when I walked through it.

"Manners are always appreciated, Miss Ada, but you would have every right to be rude after being treated so rudely," he said.

"I know, but then they'll see me sweat, and I refuse to let that happen above anything else."

A small silence followed my words as the both of us stood in the university parking lot. The outside weather had turned for the worst, the sky a darkening mess of storm clouds and high winds. My hair tousled wildly as I observed Dr. Lecter staring off towards the city's horizon.

"What brings you all the way to the Pacific coast?" I asked. "Was my lecture that appealing?"

His amber eyes trailed from the city skyline to look into my own.

"I came to visit an old colleague for a meal and to talk about the past," he replied. "It had been some time since the last time I had seen him, and yes, you were very appealing."

_I_ was appealing, I echoed in my mind. I waited for him to elaborate or to correct himself, but Dr. Lecter appeared indifferent. Instead of thinking anymore on what he said, I decided that I must have heard him wrong.

"Are you here for much longer?" I asked briskly.

That charming close-lipped smile graced his mouth as he answered me.

"I am here for the unforeseeable future. I wish to visit a few more colleagues of mine before leaving."

"Gotcha," I said while digging in my bag for my keys. "Well, it was nice seeing you again, Dr. Lecter. I'm glad that you enjoyed my lecture, drama and all."

"I can handle a little drama, Miss Ada. I-"

Dr. Lecter's words were immediately halted due to the sudden actions of a very enthusiastic young man. I didn't even see where he came from. One moment it was just Dr. Lecter and I talking, and the next my eyes were nearly blinded by several bright flashes of light.

"What? Excuse me!" I said to the stranger as I rushed to cover my eyes.

As my sight wearily adjusted, I realized that it was the young man from my lecture, the first one who was so forward with his questions about Adrian. He appeared very confident, and it wasn't until I saw what exactly he was carrying did I realize why.

It was a camera.

"Can I _help_ you?" I asked, not even bothering to hide my anger.

"Not at all, Dr. Ives," he replied smugly. "I just needed a good picture for my article for the school's newspaper."

"And what article would that be?"

"Oh, you'll love it," he answered. "It's on psychopathology and twins, how in the state of Washington lives a psychopath who tried to kill one of his sisters, and how his twin still visits him at the ward."

Before I could say anything, the young man laughed and took off with the camera, his eyes lit up with excitement as he gave one last look over his shoulder at Dr. Lecter and me.

"Are you kidding me?" I asked out loud to no one in particular. "Ugh, Dr. Lecter, I am so sorry for this."

The man was still blinking the light away when he said, "No need to apologize. You did nothing wrong."

"I'm, I'm just speechless. I mean, I've never been so disrespected during my visits here."

After an aggravated sigh of defeat, I unlocked my car and began loading my things in the back seat.

"Did that young man say he was a student here at this school?" Dr. Lecter's voice sounded behind me.

"I guess he is. He writes for the newspaper, at least that's what he said. I don't know. I'm done. I'm not going to bother with it."

After shutting the back door of my car, I turned to give my full attention to Dr. Lecter, who, had a slight hint of enjoyment lighting his eyes.

"Once again, it was nice to see you, Dr. Lecter."

He shot me a look, causing me to correct myself.

"Hannibal. I meant Hannibal," I said with a short laugh.

"We'll need to work on that, Miss Ada. I'll have you know that I'm currently living in a rental home in the city, and would be honored if you would allow me to cook for you some time soon."

My lips parted after hearing his offer, but I quickly shut them. Caught in my throat were words, kind words, words of acceptance and gratitude, but my old issues, ones who have gripped my comfort with new acquaintances in a chokehold for years, decided to cause me to hesitate.

"Thank you, doctor," I answered cordially and said nothing more.

A mildly confused expression crept across Dr. Lecter's face, as I knew it would, and with a short nod, he opened my car door for me. I slid inside the seat and he closed the door behind me. I did my best to not look at the man while I pulled my seat belt across my lap.

"Miss Ada," I heard him say through the glass.

My eyes flickered to his face, and with a slight smile, Dr. Lecter said, "Tell your brother that I said hello."

I gave him my most sincere smile, and as I drove away I couldn't help but feel a little better. It was what encompassed my mind, both the man's demeanor and kindness, throughout the drive to the mental health facility outside the city limits.

Past the city lights, the tall tour sites, and across the water to Vashon Island lived my brother. Driving there always gave me some time for peace, time to gather up my emotions into an internal glass bottle and hope, pray, that I won't be too excited upon seeing him. As rain started to pour on to my windshield, I thought of my brother. Every day I miss Adrian. I missed his laugh, the way he simplifies things with his blunt honesty and easy temperament. He was my person that I could be who I truly was around, the consistent being who I have known before I breathed. I didn't care what people said. Adrian was who I needed in my life to remain sane sometimes.

"He has been _very _excited to see you, Ada. A bit more chatty than usual. How was your flight?"

Dr. Adam Beckett reminded me of a bear. Bearded, bulky, and warm-hearted, the man was probably the only person who I trusted with handling Adrian's wellbeing while I was not present. We were about the same age, which I knew would be good for Adrian to be around. He also had this calm about him, a certain power that touched everyone he spoke to. I felt it then as I was greeted by Dr. Beckett in the waiting hall, his large hands enveloping mine entirely as he shook them.

"The flight was fine, and I'm glad that Adrian's in a good mood," I replied.

As we spoke, we walked through the waiting hall and through a metal door. We were buzzed in, the locks unsheathed momentarily so that we may pass.

"I am, too," Dr. Beckett sighed. "He was upset after you told him that you were leaving the country. He painted a mighty fine picture of composure when you were here, but that all went up in smoke after your visit."

Through two more halls and another locked metal door, we arrived at our destination. The wing in the facility was meant for those who were considered not too dangerous, but possessed the potential to cause harm to others, hence the multiple orderlies who were posted by the exits. The patients there were also high-functioning and who required less personal care than those in other wings. In other words, it was the ideal place for someone like Adrian to temporarily call home.

"He's in the main room," said the doctor. "Let me know if you need anything."

After saying goodbye, I walked through the entry way and towards the main room of the wing. Patients watched me from doorways and from their seats, some vacantly staring thanks to their medication, others looking on with mild interest. Turning the corner, I saw him with his leg shaking in anticipation as he sat in a beanbag chair under a flickering fluorescent light. Dressed comfortably in a white t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, Adrian was staring off at nothing, his mind clearly somewhere else.

"Adrian?" I said.

Instantly, his eyes locked with my own. A wide smile then spread from ear to ear.

"About goddamn time you showed up," he half-laughed as he rose from the floor and embraced me tightly in his arms.

My nose wrinkled at the way he smelled. Clean and chemical. He smelled sterile.

When he let go, I felt his warm hands hold my face. People used to ask us if our eyes were black because they were such a deep shade of brown. It was so obvious that we were twins, our hair the same dark brunette color, our skin olive, nearly sun-kissed. Adrian's hair was cut short and spiked slightly towards the front, a look that he's worn since high school. His lashes were even long like mine, and his lips also full. They were turned into a smile, revealing a set of pearly white teeth.

"Have you been whitening your teeth?" I asked curiously, my brow furrowing at seeing him lick the front row of his teeth with his tongue.

"Maybe," he replied teasingly as he let go of my face. "Patti sent me a care package two weeks ago. Something about treating myself and all that jazz."

"Sounds like Patti."

"It does, doesn't it?"

Adrian kept smiling and embraced me again, holding me longer the second time.

"I missed you so much," he whispered in my ear.

"I missed you, too."

The next fifteen minutes with my brother were spent talking about Geneva and everything that led up to my visiting him. We spoke while in bean bag chairs, scooping cherry Jell-O cups with plastic spoons.

"Oh, Dr. James Preston!" he exclaimed. "What a peach he is, so outwardly competitive, yet internally submissive. You know, Ads, I am totally up for him coming in here and picking at my brain if he's so inquisitive."

"I know you are. That's why I would never allow it."

"Ain't my fault if what he finds isn't pleasant."

To that, I said nothing, choosing instead to fill my mouth with more gelatin.

"So," Adrian began after a short pause entered our conversation, "What is my dear twin sister going to do now?"

"Not sure, but Dr. Beckett told me that you were upset that I went to Europe."

The smile on Adrian's face faded into nothing, a blank expression taking over. His eyes then flickered back down to his spoon.

"Did he now?" he muttered.

"Yep," I answered. "You did a great job lying."

"Well, even I'm able to surpass the great Ada Ives lie detector every blue moon."

"I thought you were happy for me."

At that, Adrian leaned closer and spoke with a new seriousness.

"I am always happy for you, Ada. Don't ever think I'm not."

"What did you do after I left?"

Adrian was quiet for a moment, I assumed because he was trying to choose his words carefully. His tongue then clicked in his mouth.

"Well, I flipped the mattress of my bed. Made a lot of noise."

"Okay," I said slowly. "Why?"

"Because, Ada. Because I just knew," he answered surely.

"Just knew. Knew what?'

"Knew that you were getting away because of the stress. All of it, most of it coming from me. And I didn't like that you were leaving because of my actions."

I studied his face, how somber his eyes became as he spoke. Those eyes then became dazed, as if he no longer was looking at his hands, but some strange puzzle. Then again, maybe that's how Adrian saw himself after the incident. Maybe he didn't understand what he was capable of anymore. I didn't.

"Adrian," I whispered. "Adrian, look at me."

Those brown eyes of his steadily rose to meet my own, the look in them hungry for validation. I could just see it dancing, his desire to know that I was still on his side, despite everything that happened nearly six months ago.

"I will never abandon you, Adrian. Not ever. You're going to get out of here, if it's the last thing I do, you will get out. But, hey, you can't go throwing shit around your room anymore. You have to hold it all together. You have to, or you'll be here for however long they feel you need to be, and that could be years, Adrian, _years_. I mean, you have a nephew to think about, Andy, and-"

"Oh, like Mitzy would let me see the kid now. Be serious, Ads."

My lips pursed at his words, mainly because I knew that he was right. The chance was slim to none.

"Has she tried to talk to you?" I asked. "Mitzy?"

"Yeah, she and her dumb husband both tried to talk to me," said Adrian with a roll of the eyes. "It was a part of their "healing". I walked out of the room."

"At least they tried," I mumbled.

"So did Icarus. And look what that got him."

I instantly frowned at his last statement. Sitting up, I looked at my brother right in the eyes.

"And am I to assume then, that you are the sun in this little analogy?" I asked plainly.

Adrian chuckled for a moment, choosing to look down at his hands again. This was the side of Adrian that intrigued me the most. It was the platform that the scholarly world liked to stand on when it came to diagnosing him, to define him as someone living with a psychopathic mindset. Confident, intelligent, this side of my brother was one that no one ever saw other than myself, but everyone seemed to know existed.

"No," he finally said. "No, in the case of Mitzy I would have to say that I'm not the sun, but the hard ground that Icarus plummeted to. I believe that would be a more accurate description."

When he gazed back at me, I couldn't find it in myself to say anything to buffer his words. Adrian knew it, too, a smug smile lightly adorning his mouth while he picked at his fingernails. Thankfully, he chose to change the subject and led me to his bedroom in the wing. The rest of my visit was spent listening to Glass Animals on repeat and eating more Jell-O while we talked about Bro, the pet he left me with, and how much we hated Dr. Preston.

By the time I arrived from Vashon Island back to my waterfront home, I was exhausted. Beyond exhausted, actually. The day was long and incredibly draining, and as I curled on to the couch in my living room in my bra and underwear, ice cream in hand and pit bull at my side, clicking the TV to life should have brought me further peace. Flicking through the channels that night, I should have felt the stress of the day falling from my soul like an old skin.

That blissful state, however, would not come that night, for when I turned to one of the local news channels my heart nearly stopped. I immediately turned the volume up louder as the anchor spoke on.

"The body of twenty year old University of Washington student Thomas Himes was found late this afternoon on campus by campus security. The school is now on lockdown and commuters are urged to stay at home. All night classes have been cancelled for this evening…"

Bright on my television screen was the picture of a young man smiling happily at the camera, his glasses reflecting the light of the sun. They were the same glasses that I looked past while standing in the lecture hall earlier in the day. The same glasses that I glared into while in the school's parking lot.

My enthusiastic paparazzo, I discovered, was dead.


	3. Chapter 3

A flashy cyclone of neon light. Puffs of white, choking smoke. Faces in androgynous masks with smooth plastic cheeks and black holes for eyes. It's like a magic show, but the only thing that vanishes is my memory of the show itself. Where it all was, I couldn't tell you. By the cold waters of the sound? In an underground parking garage? The abandoned floor of an old meat packing warehouse? Yes, yes, and yes. Or no, no, and no. It was all a smudge of blurred faces and drunken conversation. I do remember music, boisterous clusters of deep bass and sirens that screamed in the air like demons. In a sweaty herd, I hopped and laughed and smiled and danced to the howls of the underworld and it went on, and on, and on, until the music stopped, the lights faded into black, and I was no longer with the herd, but alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Just me.

Alone.

I feel like I'm drowning sometimes.

Watching the rays of white sunlight that managed to pass my curtain's defense, I wondered how I alone I truly was. I wondered if there was anyone else in the world who could feel my particular brand of solidarity, another wanderer looking for a breathing mirror.

It was like my stomach was full of sand. Heavy. Sickening. I threw up five minutes after getting out of my bed, and seeing myself in my toilet's murky reflection, I saw that I was worse for wear. The saddening familiarity in my appearance, the messy hair, the black rimmed eyes, the glitter that stuck to my skin like flour, in it I saw that I had transformed into the Ada who lost control again and scuttled about Seattle like a vampire. She enjoys having multiple nightclub stamps up her arm and frolicking with strangers. Nothing sexual, I praised. Dark Ada at least has that much class to only tease other vampires then keep on walking. I dry heaved a few times, stripped my clothes, and sat in a cold shower for forty-five minutes. After thanking God for another survived fall off the deep end, I got my shit together and prepared for the rest of my long afternoon.

I am a well-respected psychiatrist after all. Let's not forget that detail.

With that detail, I am burdened though, you see, with a strange reputation. It's heavy, made heavier still when I am amongst other psychiatrists who like to study the world of child psychopathology like I do. Minor or not, the abnormal mind is a fascinating web fastened stubbornly by the results of bad parenting, unresolved trauma, biological disposition, or a conglomeration of all three. I am burdened by the strange reputation of being able to walk on such tricky webs, to talk to the ones trapped inside them and have them talk back. My first client, the "golden boy" as some would label him, has lasted 'til adulthood without causing too much incident to those around him. Since he turned eighteen, an event that many were despairingly surprised at, my popularity amongst my academic community has prospered. In a way, he was my first success. That's what those in psychiatric circles would say, as if he was some untamed animal broken by the norms of society. As if he was made a creature worthy of posing on the podium of modern man, his mind remolded into something else. I'd say, however, despite the optimism of my colleagues, that it was too early for such celebrations. Who knew what the future held? We are shaped by so much and by so little these days.

And temptation has a funny, cruel way of lasting a lifetime.

"Put those over there, by the ottoman," I said, my finger pointing to the spot on the hardwood floor of my living room.

Blaine did as he was told, setting a large box full of filing folders beside four more just like it.

"Jesus, how many more do you have?"

"Only about three more boxes, I think," I answered while my eyes skirted over an old case summary in my hands.

The young man griped on his way back to my attic, his foot falls echoing distantly from somewhere upstairs. Bro, who was lazily sprawled out beside me, perked up at watching Blaine leave the room and immediately followed him to the second level.

As my first, and unethically chosen favorite client, Blaine Darling singlehandedly chiseled in stone my mission statement. The heir to a thriving fishing industry, he certainly had the means to do great things with his life, to stretch his fingers out into the world and gain tremendously from whatever he managed to pull back. That has been our goal anyway, to find use in the world for Blaine. I made it an objective of mine, to make sure that's all his eyes could see. They would fall not on those who tried to get in the way of that desire, but on what he could achieve. It was lofty, but so far it was doable. So far, so good, as they say.

"Considering," began an inquisitive voice from the base of my narrow staircase, "that it is 2015, maybe you should implement some form of computerized filing system?"

"I might," I said. "One day. But then the question is, what use would you be to me afterwards?"

A pair of romantic eyes stared down at me, humored, dark, and enchanting. He was handsome with cherry lips and a tuft of James Dean hair, a real heartbreaker amongst my other teenage clients who would all mention his looks and charm one way or another. Standing there in a pair of designer jeans and a red v-neck sweater, I didn't see the athletic, four point GPA show pony that others idolized. He was simply Blaine to me. Another troubled young adult in need of my help.

"What are you going to do with all this paper then?" he asked as he sat down on the floor across from me. Bro curled up next to him, earning a small massage behind the ears by Blaine's hand.

"Just a little brush up is all. Some of my school notes are in here. Speaking of which, what colleges are you looking at?"

A long exhale poured from Blaine following my question. I turned my attention away from my summary to look at him.

"My mother," Blaine said in a tired tone, "believes that I should look into business courses at Washington University. That or get a law degree somewhere else."

My head slowly nodded while I said, "Okay. And what do you want to do?"

Blaine looked off towards the ceiling, a thoughtful gesture. We've been working on those for years, overt nonverbal messages. They humanized him.

"Neither," he stated. "I want to do neither. I don't want to go into college as a business major or have anything to do with law."

"Because?"

"Because that would mean that I am to fill in the boots of my father and die in the fishing business, in a big wood office with a bunch of wrinkled old worms squirming at my feet for guidance and blah blah blah."

"Being a business or law major doesn't necessarily leave you with that option alone."

The look I received from Blaine was not a pleasant one. Doubt. Sardonic doubt. To be honest, I didn't fully believe in my words either.

"_Please_," he said. "My father would never allow it any other way, and Mother would simply nod her head and go along with whatever crap he thought best, per usual. Which means, unfortunately for me, that I'd be like the fish on the butcher's slab in one of our warehouses. Laid down and gutted. Fillet. Makes me pissed just thinking about it."

"Then," I said, redirecting my eyes back to the papers in my hands. "Let's talk about something else. Do you like the idea of Washington University? I mean, other than your parents' opinion?"

A short laugh past his lips, but it wasn't friendly. Short. Unnatural.

"Not if I want to be murdered."

I immediately looked back up at him, eyes widened and lips parted. Blaine read me wrong.

"Come on, you watch the news, right?" he asked. "That kid they found a few days ago? Dead in the middle of campus?"

A flash. Fast and bright. The young man's face, the one from my lecture. His smug smile as he ran from me in the university parking lot, it flashed in my mind like his camera did.

Had. Like his camera had.

"I forgot about that," I muttered.

"Don't know how you could. People won't stop talking about it. Some kids from my school were scouting Wash. U that night when the guy's body was found. They said that he was displayed there in the fountain, the main one in the middle of campus. Posed. Something dramatic, artistic."

As Blaine looked on in awe at remembering the boy's death, I stared down at my hands in silence. Ever since I saw the story on the news, I've made a point to try not to think about the college student. I failed, clearly. The previous night's events were a testament of that. For some reason, I was bothered by the tragedy in a way that surpassed the general shock of it all. I'm not entirely sure why I became so unsettled by it, and the conversation I was having didn't make me feel any better.

"Hey," prompted Blaine, his voice low and stern. "I think someone's here."

I looked at Blaine's face and followed his eyes towards the front windows of my home. A moment later, I heard a loud knock at my door, and before I could do a thing Blaine was standing and already approaching the source of the sound.

"Blaine-" I started to call, but he had already unlocked the deadbolt and proceeded to greet whomever it was on the other side.

"Hello, gentlemen," I heard him say in a cordial, albeit cold tone. "Can I help you?"

"Good afternoon," answered a man's voice. "Is this the residence of Ada Ives? Doctor Ada Ives?"

"And whom may I ask is requesting her?"

My eyes rolled as I rose from the floor and started towards the door.

"I'm Ada Ives," I said over Blaine's shoulder, my eyes peeking past him to make out the strangers on my porch.

There were two, both male. One wore a Seattle P.D. uniform while the other was dressed plainly in a navy button-up shirt tucked into brown slacks, a dark brown filing folder held at his hip. Now him, the man in simple clothing, I recognized him immediately.

"Dr. Ives," said the second man in a gentle voice. "My name is Will Graham. I'm assisting the FBI on an investigation, and would like to have a word with you if you have time."

"Thank you, Mr. Graham," replied Blaine in my place. "But if you don't mind, please let her see your credentials first."

I didn't need to directly see Blaine's face to know that he was leery of them. His posture, the ice in his voice carefully sugarcoated in a thin layer of manners. They were his trademarks. I should know. They took a long time to construct.

"And you are?" asked the officer.

My guests were starkly different from one another. The policeman, he was unimportant to me. I decided that he was of no special interest from that point on during their visit. Will Graham, however, was a different story. I've heard about him through the psychology grapevine, about what he's done and can do with his "empathy" disorder or whatever they settled on when it came to how his mind ticked. Gossip said that he had an eye for picking apart those around him, noting concisely on their behaviors and in a way understanding the abnormalities in the untypical mind of society's less empathic. He was doing it then. I saw his eyes dissecting Blaine, not rudely, but with enough directness to bother me. It was a quick thing, but a second or two was too long to study any client of mine without permission.

"Please, gentlemen," I interjected before Blaine had the opportunity to answer. "Your credentials."

Despite the weird tension, both men revealed to me their cards and information. Satisfied, I nudged Blaine to the side to allow them inside my home.

"I have time to answer whatever questions you have," I told them. "However, I must ask that you wait in the waiting room. I need some quick privacy with my client."

I led the men to a small study with a red leather couch before leading Blaine to my backdoor. We were welcomed by the cool winds of the distant waters the moment we stepped outside.

"They came just in time," I said as Blaine and I strolled around the yard to the front of my house. "Our time together had just run out."

Our steps landed on soaked smooth stones, the rain from the night before still evident on my lawn. My home was perched near the sound, a pleasant view of the glistening waters always granted to me through my windows. I thought of it as a better place to conduct therapy for my clients than an office room. Calmer. Less clinical. Home.

"Lucky them," said Blaine. "You know, Dr. A., now that I am no longer seventeen, then that means that I'm too old to receive your services."

"Yep. That's one of the privileges of becoming a full-fledged adult. But what is it that you're really trying to say, Blaine?"

"Well, you know what I'm really trying to say is that I'm _begging _you to remain as my psychiatrist, Dr. Ives. I don't want to change therapists."

"We made an agreement remember?" I said. "When you first came to see me?"

"That shouldn't count. I was…unpleasant back then."

"So you remember our agreement?" I pressed.

"Yes, I remember that conversation, but now I want to table it."

Stopping by the curb where his motorcycle rested, I gave Blaine an exasperated look.

"You can't table it, Blaine. You know that. I'm sorry."

"It's your choice who you see, Dr. A. No one else's."

"I know, but I prefer to see only minors, not adults, and there's a reason for that."

"Which is?"

"I don't need to say."

"But I want to know-"

"Sorry."

The way he glowered at me. I will never forget it. Those coals in his skull, they flourished with invisible fire. His stare was so heated that I swore I would combust at any moment. With all that I had in me, I stood my ground. I did not relent.

"Fine," he at last breathed as he strode languidly towards his motorcycle. "I'll be back on Friday to help you with the rest of the files. And I'll have you know that my mother has already started setting up my first appointment with my new psychiatrist."

As he was shrugging his leather jacket over his shoulders, I offered the most sincere smile I could give him. He refused to look at me, finding more comfort in the gravel at his feet.

"I'm sure things will go well if you let him get to know who you really are," I said kindly. "Give him a chance."

"Who I _really _am is of little consequence to those who are paid to find out," he muttered.

"I'm paid."

"You're different though. _You believe in me_."

Maybe I was still hung over. Maybe I was still exhausted. Too emotional. Sensitive. Whatever it was pressed me to go against all propriety and at hearing Blaine's voice waver during his last words, I stepped down from my place on the curb and reached out towards my client. With both arms, I held Blaine close to me. We stood together with his still form and face turned to the earth, a hurricane of emotion churning in those romantic eyes of his. He offered nothing to my embrace, as expected. No return of strong arms. No words. I might have imagined it, but I thought I did feel Blaine lean slightly nearer to me. I took it as it was, a slight relent, a crack in the façade.

Instantly after I let Blaine go, we turned our separate ways without another word. I walked up to my house. His motorcycle growled to life and he was gone.

Part of me wondered if my two guests had witnessed my moment with Blaine, mostly because I feared that they would be curious about him. Certainly they understood the rules of confidentiality, I thought as I crossed the front door of my home. I knew they did. Still, I can never help but feel protective of them, my clients. My little fish in the sea.

"I apologize," said Will Graham as I set before the men three cups of fresh coffee. Under the table I caught him rubbing the top of my dog's head. Bro was in heaven.

"For?"

"For interrupting. I didn't realize that you were with a client."

A light smile pulled at my lips.

"It's alright," I replied. "How could you? Besides, he is both client and intern. You were only interrupting his intern work, nothing too psychiatric."

The man silently nodded at my words, taking his time as he sipped his coffee. The funny thing was that I had just finished rereading his essay on the pitfalls of psychic driving the other day. To see the man in the flesh idly drinking coffee in my kitchen was definitely unexpected.

One thing I noticed most about Will Graham were his eyes. His eyes always looked so sad to me. In photographs they puddled on his face, a mix of sober blue and gray like the muted clouds of a Seattle rain storm. They were just as blue in person, too, but they carried a deeper level of sadness as he stared at me from across my table. The windows to his soul were weathered.

I noticed also the stitching of his shirt. Nice, not too expensive but made to look the professional part. He needed to shave. Something on his finger. Yes, a wedding ring. Clean, shining.

"Client and intern," said Graham, pulling me from my quick observation. "That sounds _complicated_."

"It is. Sometimes. Tell me, what brings you to my home this afternoon?"

At my directness, Graham gently set his coffee cup down, his eyes then settling somewhere on my face as he parted his lips to speak.

"Are you aware, Dr. Ives, that there was a student's body found on the Washington University campus this past week?"

"I am."

"The student was Thomas Himes. He sat in your lecture that day. Do you remember him?"

Graham laid the folder on the table. From it he took out a large photograph, the one from the news broadcast. Those glasses. Smiling youthful eyes.

"Yes, I do," I answered. "He was very curious."

"The other attendees of your lecture stated that he was forward with his inquiries about your family."

"_Forward_," I repeated with a smile that I knew failed to reach my eyes. "That's a much better word for what I would call him."

"Did anything strike you as strange during your lecture that afternoon? Did anyone stand out other than Thomas Himes?"

"Um, not that I can recall? There were a lot of people there, varying ages. Some were professors. Students, obviously. But, to be honest, my focus was mainly on what I had to say."

"That's understandable."

It was my turn to drink my coffee, to ponder in my head a question or two. They went back and forth, but finally managed to come out.

"If you don't mind me saying, Mr. Graham, you have the reputation of popping up where serial killers tend to be involved. Is that what the FBI thinks? That a serial murderer is responsible for this boy's death?"

A pause. Short and quiet. One could almost feel the silence.

"The method," started Graham with his stare gazing past me, "that this killer went about in ending Thomas Himes's life was not the typical crime of passion or by any means an accident. There was thought put into how his victim would be found."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Didn't I?" he countered.

A pause. Pointed. There was some weight to it.

"Do you have pictures of the crime scene?" I asked.

His melancholy eyes instantly locked with mine before looking down at the folder. Reopening it, I watched as Will Graham began sifting through the paperwork inside it, searching for a particular page. At last, he found what he wanted, his hand sliding the paper over so that I could have a better look.

"It is graphic, Dr. Ives," I was warned as I took in what was printed before me.

In the center of Washington University's Drumheller Fountain, a beautiful installment to the school's property, I saw a pale form standing in the shallow waters. The form belonged to Thomas Himes and he was not standing according to his own volition. Not that he had any by that point, shirtless and propped up by a metal construct that held his lifeless corpse in place. His head was lolled back as far as it could go, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. Hands, too, were held in place and pressed against his chest, surrounding something short and metal that pierced halfway through his body. Thick blood ran down his abdomen in a heavy river, staining his sopped jeans. Looking closer at his face, I saw another chilling detail.

"What's wrong with his eyes?" I asked Graham, my brow furrowing as I stared harder at the image.

"He has no eyes," he said quietly. "We believe that the killer took them."

My sight flickered to meet Graham's.

"Took them? For what?"

A subtle change took over Will Graham. I had to think twice afterwards, but I know that I did see the man swallow and his focus sharpened based on how a taint of anger seemed to grace his jawline.

"Trophies," he finally answered. "At this point, the eyes are considered to be trophies that the killer took for himself."

"What's that in his chest?"

Another page was slid across the table from the folder. On it I saw an arrow, dark and made of what looked like to be cast iron. It was tagged and on a metal examination table, blood still staining the middle of its body.

"Wow," was all that I was able to say.

I mean, what else could I say to such a macabre scene? Graham was right. This was laughably not a crime of passion. No, this, whatever it was that I was looking at, certainly took planning and thought, a sick amount. Whoever killed the student, he was intelligent. He was some kind of evil.

"The FBI doesn't know yet if this is the work of a serial killer," he continued. "But the local authorities contacted us and this design is similar to a killer's that we are investigating."

"Wow," I repeated dumbly as I slid the pictures away from me. "Well, let me know if I can help in any way. I'll be glad to."

Seeing that I had answered all that the men asked of me, the visit came to a close and we rose from our chairs.

"Thank you for your time, Dr. Ives," said Graham as I escorted the men to the door. "I doubt we'll be bothering you with any more questions."

"Let's hope not," I replied with a polite smile.

Thankfully, he smiled meekly back at me.

"I understand," began Graham with a tiny bit of hesitation, "that the FBI hasn't been too kind towards you."

"Because of my family or because of my stance on child psychopathology?"

"Both reasons, I imagine."

"They are, and were, only doing their job," I said indifferently. "And I was doing the work of a sister and someone who cares for the misunderstood, Mr. Graham. Nothing more than that."

"Well, if anyone understands the way in which the FBI conducts their work, I do. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me. You wouldn't mind if I leave my card with you? In case you can recall anything else?"

I said that I didn't mind at all and placed the card in my back pocket. While waving the two men on their way, part of me couldn't help but feel relieved. Another trial was survived. I made it another hour. First my morning recovery from oblivion, then the FBI, and after checking the clock on my wall, I sighed and realized that the third and final trial awaited me, probably the toughest one of them all: cocktail hour with my sister.

Believe it or not, I love my sister. I do. I really do. True, I wanted to punch her lights out when she gave me an earful about her son Andy, her job, her husband, or how single I still was, but deep down she was my lovable sister. Mitzy had that gooey sweetness about her that drew in friends left and right. Since middle school, boys adored her bright smile and go-getter attitude, living in that rare sweet spot of being adored by both men and women without gaining spite from the latter. She was always the prize that men fought for, always the girl who had friends in several of the popular social circles in high school. Mitzy was a ray of fucking sunshine. She was America's sweetheart sister, and I loved her dearly.

I mean, I had to have for being willing to stick to our plans that we made a week ago. My body still felt like complete hell, sore and exhausted, but I curled my hair anyway. I must have cared for her in some amount to get dolled up in my little black dress, high heels, and blood red lipstick. I had to love her to walk down the street at night towards our favorite bar scene, an area that was already thriving like a bee hive. When I finally reached the corner where we typically met up at, to my annoyance my beloved sister was nowhere to be seen.

Late. She was late, late, late, late, late.

After standing around for what felt like forever, my patience grew thin. Bitterly, I pulled out my cell phone and blindly started to turn up the sidewalk. Right as I was, my body immediately jostled hard into another person. My balance knocked, I started to stumble. If not for a man's firm hands steadying my arm and waist, I might have fallen hard on to the pavement.

"I apologize," the person said in my ear, his breath hot against my cheek. Peppermint. I smelt peppermint. "Are you alright?"

"I, I think so," I mumbled as the stranger stood me upright. My hands were still gripping his arms, the firmness of taught muscle felt under my palms. Raising my eyes to meet his, my whole body immediately felt warmer. My arms dropped.

"It's you again," I breathed.

"And it is you," replied Dr. Lecter, giving me a smile in return that fully lit his sensual amber eyes. "Out on a night on the town, I see."

His eyes regarded my appearance appreciatively, and I did the same to him. Standing with me on the street corner with a paper bag in hand modeled a man in a black blazer and black collared shirt tucked into dark wash jeans. His shoes were, naturally, a smooth black leather that matched the rest of his chic attire. Staring up at his handsome face, I saw that something significant had changed since our last run in.

"You got a haircut," I blurted.

Dr. Lecter's eyes widened for a second before his fingers ran through his shortened locks. I smiled at his mild vulnerability.

"Yes, I had one today. I thought that it was finally time to try something new," he said. "I'm surprised you even noticed."

The man somehow managed to double his sex appeal in one act alone. Gone were the long wisps of silvery-brown bangs, his hair more boyish and styled forward. His comment was laughable. How could I not notice?

"I tend to notice the little things here and there. It looks great," I said. "Where are you headed?"

"Thank you, and I was headed back home, actually. I'm only out to pick up a bottle of wine. However, if you don't mind me admitting, I'm very glad that I chose to do so tonight."

"Why is that?"

"It gave me the opportunity to run into you yet again, Miss Ada."

At his words, a swell of shyness bubbled in my chest, but before I could say anything, anything at all, I caught a glimpse of Mitzy heading down the street in our direction.

Without explanation, I grabbed Dr. Lecter's hand and proceeded to drag him to the side of the sidewalk against the brick wall of a bar, immersing ourselves in as much shadow as possible. From there I watched my sister glance around the area, her eyes actively searching for me.

"Are we hiding from someone?"

We were standing close to one another in between other groups of night idlers. The sting of cigarette smoke coupled in the air with the sweet smell of his breath. I smiled at the thin confusion that touched his tone.

"Yes, yes we are," I answered while watching the street life. "No one too terrible. Just my sister."

"I see."

A hushed laugh left my mouth.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "Mitzy just gets weird when she sees me talking to men."

"How so?"

Someone bumped me from behind and I had to take a small step closer. Our bodies grazed accidently, but I didn't mind.

"She becomes a private investigator," I said. "Only worse. Maybe obsessive investigator is more accurate."

"And you think that hiding me from her is the best way to extinguish her overbearing curiosity?"

At his words, I frowned and turned away from my puzzled sister to gaze up at my hostage. It had been a long time since I felt so small, but standing there beneath Lecter's questioning gaze, his body leaning against the brick and partly shielding me from Mitzy's view, a humbling sense of inadequacy swarmed me. My idiocy was sinking in by that point, the realization of how childish I was being in front of Dr. Lecter hitting home. However immature I was proving to be in that moment, Dr. Lecter didn't appear annoyed or put off by my behavior. Instead I would say that he was getting a real kick out of this. He was smiling again, the amusement touching his eyes as he looked down at me and then peered out from the shadows to stare at Mitzy.

"What is the worst thing your sister will do upon seeing us standing together?" he mused.

"She will probably eat us."

I saw those nice lips of his lift into a smirk.

"That would be an interesting turn of events for me," he said.

"That or berate us with a scary smile and heavy assumptions about our relationship," I added.

"Ah, so she's that type of sibling."

"Yes. Unfortunately."

"Well then," he started in a more confident voice. My eyes returned to the man's attractive face and saw that he was staring down at me with a mischievous look in his eyes, a certain deviousness that I wasn't sure I liked yet. "Let us say hello."

Confused by what he meant, I felt a tug at my hand. The hand that, to my surprise, was still attached to Dr. Lecter's. He pulled me from our safe haven and to the spot on the sidewalk beside my sister, but before she turned around and saw us, I instantly let go of him. I caught his disapproving look just as my sister's eyes widened at seeing me.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, giving me a tight hug. "I thought you forgot or something. I was just about to call you."

"Nope. I remembered-"

"Who is this?"

And, there it was. Inevitable. The classic shimmer in Mitzy's eyes that was lethal to my own sense of social safety. Her nosey curiosity.

"Hello," greeted Dr. Lecter warmly. "My name is Hannibal. It is nice to meet you."

They shook hands, though Mitzy to my inner horror was looking dreamily at me when they did.

"It is _so nice_ to meet you, Hannibal," she told him, this time giving Dr. Lecter her full attention. "I'm Ada's older sister Mitzy, as you probably already know. Now, how do you two know each other?"

And, there it was again. Her cutting directness. Quick to the chase. A family trait.

"Through chance," answered Dr. Lecter. "Multiple chances. I'm afraid that your sister is trying to get rid of me, yet continues to fail."

"Well, thank God for that! She and I usually have drinks after work once a week, but I think that we can make an exception this time and include you if you'd like to join us?"

"Oh," I said in mock disappointment. "He said that he was on-"

"I would love to," said Dr. Lecter, his genuine smile gracing his mouth again.

Like a flame to gasoline, his words ignited Mitzy's full-fledged sister mode. She nearly exploded with joy.

"Great! Let's head on up then!" cheered my sister with the biggest smile spreading from ear to ear. I tried my best, but there was no physical way that I could mirror her. She took me as I was, the three of us weaving through the crowd to The Depot Lounge, the sensation of his touch still ghosting my palm.

* * *

><p><strong>Please review! <strong>

**This one took a long time to finish, mainly because I started twice, getting half way through before deciding that I didn't like what I created, and starting over again.**

**Thanks for reading, TCR.**


	4. Chapter 4

I am a night owl. Plain and simple. To all the morning people out there, kudos to them and their ability to start the day fresh, fabulous, and forth coming. How they can rise out of bed with a full smile and an attitude that's ready to carpe diem is beyond me, and frankly it's not a lifestyle I plan to adopt any time soon. Those people, the merry early risers, they can have the worm. Me, I'm in love with the moon, the stars, the busying bodies that search for midnight adventure. I relish the street carts full of cheap greasy food, the come-hither lights of bar signs, and the fragrance of cigarettes. The dark is full of mystery, not frightening but alluring me to trek further into it. I am a night owl. I can stay up every night of the week, no problem.

The night that began at The Depot Lounge, it remains as one of the most eye-opening experiences of my life. The uncertainty of that evening, it still clings to my thoughts like a swarm of flies.

A low lighted room filled with leather and wood decor made up The Depot Lounge, and ever since I've been able to pay my own bills consistently I've been a happy attendee. I was in familiar territory, you see. I should have been relaxed, taking in the scent of freshly cut tobacco as men around me clipped their cigars. But, I wasn't relaxed at all. For the first time sliding into an open booth, with Dr. Lecter scooting in beside me and across from my sister, I felt a sense of unease creep along my skin. Like a teenager introducing her boyfriend to her parents I was dreadfully nervous. Which, if we were honest here, was a large dramatization. Dr. Lecter was a step above acquaintance, maybe a friend, but nothing more. Mitzy, she and I used to wrestle over plastic tea sets when we were little, each fight ending in the gnashing of teeth and the pulling of hair. She was no parent figure in my eyes and never will be. Despite where I stood with both people, in the strangest of ways, I was anxious and hyperaware of all that was around me. The strumming of easy jazz music overhead, the dulled chatter surrounding our booth, the clinking of glass tumblers and the scent of something exotic and sweet. I swallowed as my eyes focused on the high paneled ceiling. It was my only means of escape.

The design, focus on the design.

Metal swirls.

Flakes of gold.

"Relax," a voice whispered in my ear. It was low, steady. Close. "I won't let her eat us," finished Dr. Lecter while my sister stopped digging around in her purse and grinned in our direction.

"What would everyone like to drink tonight?" she asked happily, eyes lingering on Dr. Lecter.

"If you would like, I will place our orders with the bartender," offered Lecter. "And, if you trust me, Mitzy, I can surprise you with a cocktail that I doubt you've tried before."

Her eye brows rose at that. Now he had her.

"I'm down," she replied. "Thank you, kind sir."

As Dr. Lecter began leaving our booth, my sister said, "Oh, wait, you forgot about Ada."

"I know what she likes," he responded, a coy close-lipped smile teasing at his lips.

Mitzy and I both watched as Dr. Lecter made his way through the lounge's crowd, his back to us when he stood at the bar.

"Ada…"

"Don't."

"Ada…"

"No."

"Ada!"

"Ugh, what?"

"Marry him."

"Stop."

"You have to!"

"You don't even know his last name," I breathed.

"So? Marry that man. He's phenomenal, I can tell!"

Against my will, I found myself grinning back at my excited sister, happy to see her happy about something so mundane.

"He's a little older, don't you think?" she commented, her attention trailing to stare at the good doctor as he watched the bartender work his magic. "Oh, but look at that ass."

"I'm not going to look, and he is older. I suppose. Not that his age matters considering that he's just a colleague, someone I've met only about a month ago, Mitzy."

"Where?"

"My flight back from Europe. We sat next to each other."

"Huh. Does he have fur rugs?"

"What?"

"Fur rugs. Does he have them?"

"Why would-"

"Seems like the type."

"-I know that?"

"He's gotta be in his forties. He has laugh lines."

"Where are you right now?"

"Where your brain should be. In the game. In the dating world which has given you a rare specimen to try out."

"Try out? Jesus, he's not a car-"

"Don't make me text Patti."

At her warning, I glowered.

"One, you wouldn't," I said. "Two, why would you?"

"One, I will. And two, you're being stupid. I'll say you've met a man and are too prude to fuck him."

"That's a _huge _leap you're making…"

"No it isn't. You're a prude, Ads. Just admit it."

"Not that," I murmured. "Last I checked, sexual activity is most enjoyed when it's _consensual_, as in both parties are up for it. I don't think he's even attracted to me."

"I caught him staring at your boobs."

My eyes narrowed in on my sister and as expected, hers sheepishly glanced away.

"Okay, I didn't," she relented.

"I know he didn't," I declared. "He's been very polite since the day I first met him. It would seem out of character."

"Oh, and here I thought you barely knew him!" mocked Mitzy.

"Eat a dick," I snipped.

"I suppose one of us has to…"

Just as I was about to sass back at my sister, her eyes pointed to the approaching Dr. Lecter, drinks in hand. I bit back my words, glaring at Mitzy's victorious demeanor.

"Brandy for myself, a surprise for Mitzy, and whiskey on the rocks for Miss Ada," said Lecter as he rejoined me at our seat.

"Wow!" cried my sister. "For barely knowing one another he certainly has you pegged, doesn't he, Ads?"

I ignored the double message, taking a long drink from my whiskey instead.

"What do I owe you?" I asked Lecter.

"Your company," he answered softly in my ear.

I refused to look the man in the eyes. Not that it mattered. I'm sure whatever blush was surely coloring my cheeks gave me away.

"What is this, Hannibal?" Mitzy said to him after sampling her glass. "It's delicious."

"It's a vesper," he told her. "Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet with a lemon peel."

"James Bond?" I asked.

He turned to me, the corner of his lips pulling up in a sort of smirkish smile.

"Yes, very good, Miss Ada," he said with a deep stare that held my attention.

That time, there was no escape. It was as if he made a point to capture my direct attention, all of it. There was something undeniably magnetic about those eyes, those burning orbs of reddish brown that changed with whatever mood the man was secretly feeling. They were his only flaw to his mystery, his eyes, the only way that I had a clue that he was feeling at all. I could never turn away. As I stated before, his eyes, the windows to Lecter's soul, they were like blackened glass to a magnificent mansion. What lied within them, who knew? I saw only mystery. But I kept looking in, in those seared sunset eyes. I searched for light.

"Am I spy material, Hannibal?" teased my sister. "Is that what you're trying to say here?"

At that, the man slowly looked away from me and back at my sister. His shoulders shrugged indifferently.

"Who's to say?" he asked. "James Bond is a complex character with many traits."

"Well, it doesn't matter. You can learn about me later. Now, I hear an accent. Are you from somewhere in Europe?"

"Lithuania, but most of my adolescent years were spent in France."

"I'm not going to even pretend I know where Lithuania is," she joked. "But France? Tell me about that."

And the conversation carried on. And on. And on. I gave the right amount of nods and smiles as Mitzy dissected Dr. Lecter, asking about his profession, his tastes, his travels, information about his family which was a somber subject, and yes, if he was single. Multiple times I prayed that I was invisible. Or dead. Or that the hour and thirty or so minutes was just a very vivid nightmare. God must've forgotten about me because a drink or three later, Mitzy was still prattling on about Dr. Lecter and how well versed he seemed. The man, bless him, answered all her questions politely, giving enough detail to sedate her curiosities.

At last when Mitzy excused herself to use the restroom, I was able to turn to Dr. Lecter and apologize.

"There is no need for that," he said kindly. "I'm enjoying myself in the company of you and your sister. You rescued me from an uneventful evening alone."

"Oh, I rescued you?" I countered. "Good, because for a moment there, maybe it was in between the questions about your college years or where you shop for your wardrobe, I thought that I had thrown you into Hell."

"Perhaps she is a small part of your own Hell, but to me she is only a doting sibling interested in the friends of her younger sister. She loves you very much."

My shoulders shrugged as I finished my second finger of whiskey. He was right. She cared for me a lot, and I did love Mitzy back, overanalyzing bitch and all.

When she arrived back at our booth, she said with a yawn that she ought to head home for the night. By then, the lounge had doubled in numbers, the tables difficult to navigate through without having to carefully shimmy past the other bar goers.

Leading the way with Lecter close behind, I managed to get to the front of the lounge without incident. It was when I accidently collided with a man holding a glass of wine did things go awry.

"What the hell?" he blabbed in my face, his words messy and slurred. My nose wrinkled at the rank stench of alcohol that seeped off his flakey lips. His question roused the attention of a few other men beside him, I'm assuming to be those also in his party.

I did my best to move past the man, but his stout frame purposely blocked the way.

"Excuse me," I said while keeping my eyes on the ground.

"Excuse me, what, pretty lady?" he chortled, some of his spit spraying and landing on my face. "Where do you think you're going?"

"The door. Please move."

The stranger, a portly fellow whose face was reddened from drunkenness, felt the need to close the space between my body and his. He staggered towards me, causing my muscles to instantly tense.

"What if I want you to stay awhile, huh, sugar? You look like you could use some fun to loosen ya' up."

"Please move."

"Or what?" he replied, one of his chubby hands reaching up to grab my shoulder. "Or what, pretty baby?"

Just as he was about to touch me, I quickly swatted his hand away. At that, the man turned to his friends and laughed. They, too, were boisterous. However, no one else seemed to notice what was happening in the lounge between me and the asshole and his merry band of assholes.

"Oh, so you're a naughty baby!" he exclaimed.

I swallowed, then lurched at the small sensation of someone's body grazing the back of my own.

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

The voice was right by my ear, cordial yet firmly demanding of their attention. It was Dr. Lecter's. I sensed him standing directly behind me, his frame encompassing and his hand gently resting on the small of my back.

"The only problem here, asshole," garbled the man. "Is that this _lovely_ piece of _ass_ isn't-"

"I suggest that you do not complete that sentence," interrupted Lecter, his tone still carrying that tinge of polite authority.

"And who the fuck are you?"

Conflict. I felt it sting in the air like the static before a lightning strike. Looking up at Lecter, at his serene face, I saw a new man who rang of silent danger. It was so slow, the moment that I squinted through his composure and into his windows. I've seen such a look before in the eyes of human beings, most who have sat across from me in my home. It's a spark of the driving force that has pushed mankind to have lasted so long on this earth. Instinct. Survivalism. The deadly glint in the eye of a predator before it goes in for the kill. From such close proximity, I saw it in Dr. Lecter for the first time in my life.

Maybe that was it. Nothing else about his expression indicated anything emotive. His face was smooth like porcelain. It was the look in his eyes. Maybe, too, it was the pressure of his finger tips on my lower back that dug harder after hearing the drunkard's challenge. Maybe that was what planted the seed to my uncertainty of what I later would feel. I saw it for the first time in Dr. Lecter that night. The look. Instinct.

Maybe I'm not so alone after all.

"It doesn't matter," I answered to the stranger, my eyes flitting from Lecter to glare into the other man. "Because you're going to move out of our way. Now."

"And if I don't-"

"If you don't, then I will personally see to the dismembering of your genitals. I will castrate you myself, ripping and tearing with fingernails, you insidious _pig_, because you're wasting my time, and as someone whose brother is currently committed to a mental institution for a murder attempt, I'm a little short on empathy, so you better get the fuck out of my way before this "piece of ass" decides to take away any physical indication of your gender that you might possibly possess. And I will. Believe me. And if you don't believe me, then I dare you to try and touch me one more time, you small, meaningless piece of trash. I will make you a believer. That I can guarantee."

The man magically sobered, his eyes wide and focused. I waited patiently as my words absorbed into his mind, and sure enough, he stepped to the side and allowed me to pass without another peep. His companions who must have failed to hear my words, hollered at my party as we moved, but their idiotic leader didn't even look at my face. The three of us left the bar in peace, yet I didn't allow myself to exhale until we reached the safety of the sidewalk.

"Ada," said my sister.

"What?"

"What was that about?" she asked.

We were lingering by the corner beneath the street lamp, the light revealing to me Mitzy's furrowed brow.

Before I could answer her, Dr. Lecter stepped in.

"There was a simple misunderstanding with an unruly gentleman," he said. "Ada was only putting him in his place."

I carefully glanced at Dr. Lecter, doing my best to quickly assess what he could possibly be thinking. Of course, I came up empty-handed. The man was so stoic it was almost annoying.

Had Dr. Lecter heard what I told the man at the lounge? For the most part he appeared indifferent. He didn't meet my gaze and instead continued to maintain eye contact with Mitzy.

"Uh-huh," said Mitzy. "Okay then. Well, it was great meeting you, Hannibal, but I gotta run. I've got a husband and a little boy waiting at home for me."

"I enjoyed tonight. Thank you for inviting me on your date with Ada."

"Oh, anytime!"

Mitzy then turned and extended her arms out towards me for an embrace. As we hugged, she whispered a command in my ear.

"Take him home with you. Do it."

I frowned as she let me go, put off by her final bit of sisterly advice. After another wave of the hand, she flagged down a cab, got in it, and vanished into the city. I couldn't help but grin again at Mitzy, at her enthusiasm and what I assumed was her pleased sense of a mission accomplished.

"Where did you park?" asked Dr. Lecter.

"Oh, I didn't drive tonight. I took a cab."

Lecter stood beside me, posture straight and hands tucked away in his front pockets. Coupled with an enigmatic gaze, the man could've been posing for a magazine cover.

"Would you like me to drive you to your home?" he offered.

Shaking my head, I replied, "Nah, I can just take a cab. That's what I normally do when I go out with Mitzy anyway. Thank you though, Dr. Lecter. I appreciate you asking."

A little sigh. Barely audible, but distinct amongst the swirl of city sound. It entered the Seattle air from the mouth of my colleague. I had a feeling that it was meant to be heard as a new expression of tired disapproval spread from his jawline to his eyes. I frowned as anxiety stung in my chest, as if I was about to be reprimanded by teacher.

"Miss Ada," said Lecter in a low voice. "I would hate to punish you, but if you continue to be formal with me, then I might have to take extensive measures."

A firm frown. Dark eyes. Set jaw. After studying his face, I decided to take my chances and assume him to be kidding. I allowed my own frown to disappear and my mouth to curl into an easy smile. Feeling extra mischievous, I daringly stepped closer to the man on the corner, my stare lingering on his cross expression.

"Sorry, I couldn't hear you from all the way over there," I told him. "But did you say that you might have to _punish_ me?"

"I did."

"How would you go about that?"

Under the halo of the street light, I felt as if I was treading on rough waters, but not the kind where I feared of drowning, but the waters that would carry me to a place that would be awakening, invigorating, and new. There is hardly an explanation as to why I was feeling the way I felt that night, jittery with excitement and anxiety. It was a safe bet to say that Dr. Lecter was to blame. Probably the only reason.

From hearing my second question, Dr. Lecter's head tilted to the side, his eyes never leaving my own.

"I'm not entirely sure, Miss Ada," said Lecter softly. "Punishing you would be a challenging ordeal. I'd have to be creative with someone such as yourself."

"You can figure something out. However, I would rather die than put you in a capital position, Hannibal. Punishment from you sounds awfully scary."

"Scarier than your sister?"

A swell of laughter left my lips.

"That's a tough call, but I'm guessing that you have the potential to be a billion times more frightening. That, I'll wager for sure."

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"How do you know that I'm frightening?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

Quiet and unblinking, we stared at one another, a stand-off of sorts, until finally after a long moment, both of us cracked a smile.

Ever the gentleman, Dr. Lecter offered me his arm.

"Then be obedient, Miss Ada," he said coolly. "Let me drive you home."

I hesitated, but then took his arm after deciding that it would be rude to refuse. Not every day that a man offers to walk you down the street like that.

"Fine then," I said. "But just so you know, this isn't an act of obedience or submission, Hannibal. Only the illusion that you have an effect on me at all. I'm not so easily flirted with, you know."

"Most intelligent women aren't. That is why their hearts are often regarded as prizes or a goal to be won."

"Are you objectifying me?" I teased.

"I wouldn't dare. Only complimenting."

"Is that what you're really saying, Mr. Hannibal?"

"I will leave that to your imagination, Miss Ada."

Unsure by what he meant, I chose not to reply. We walked in silence, our arms snaked around each other's and steps quietly landing on the pavement almost in sync. He led me to a small parking lot a few blocks away from the bar quarter. There, I spotted a sleek, black mid-size SUV that he clicked to life, and, not surprisingly, I was led to the passenger side and the door was opened for me.

"Since you've heard a great amount of information about me tonight," began Lecter as he pulled out of the parking lot, "I would especially enjoy hearing about the life of Ada Ives."

"It's not that fun of a subject," I said dully.

"Then tell me only the good parts."

After giving him the directions to where I lived, and after much tender prodding on his part, I allowed Dr. Lecter to ask me the most generic questions in the existence of everything.

"Where did you attend college?" he asked.

"Washington University, of course."

"Do you cook?"

"No. I'm terrible."

"I doubt that."

"You must love being wrong. You're awfully good at under and overestimating me. I once tried cooking with alcohol and nearly burned off my eye brows."

That lovely, closed, ghost of a smile graced his mouth again as the lights of Seattle raced past his face.

"Favorite book?"

"The Great Gatsby," I said.

"Hated book?"

"The Great Gatsby. I loved the wording and how pretty it sounded, but I hated the girl, that dumb what's-her-face who broke his heart and ran off with the money. Plus, I wanted the green light to mean more."

"It is said to be Gatsby's hopes and dreams of the future. What did you wish it to be?"

"Not sure. Something magical, I guess."

"Is the future not a magical thing?"

"In its own way, yeah, it's pretty great. But still, I was disappointed. I wanted there to be a tangible thing for Gatsby to hold, to know, to actually be happy with. I chucked the book out the window when I finished it, I was so mad."

"What is your favorite childhood memory?"

We wove through the busier parts of the city and towards a more subdued area of smaller shops and homes. The trees stood up like guardians, black masts that blurred and formed an army as we drove onward. I stared at them while I thought about the past, about life back then and of Adrian. I dwelled on the sunnier times where we were innocent, and wondered still if such a time was real. I thought on what he was doing at the facility while I was out having fun. His face illuminated in my mind.

"I'd rather not say," I said quietly.

In my window's reflection, I caught Hannibal watching me. On his mouth was a slight frown. I use the word slight because most of what he was showing to me thus far was so miniscule that I doubted its existence. Sure, he allowed some emotion in his facial features, but he was so choosey about them. While he was talking to Mitzy, he was much more animated, I noticed, allowing his teeth to peek out and the skin around his eyes to crinkle when he chuckled. Dr. Lecter was good at hiding what he felt, at exhibiting self-control. I didn't like that he was so careful around me though. It made me feel self-conscious, as if I wasn't a safe person that he could be himself around.

Thankfully, he respected my curt answer about my childhood and changed the subject.

"I plan to remain here in Seattle," he told me. "I've already found a property to purchase."

"Really?" I said with a bit more interest. "Sounds like a sudden decision."

"It wasn't. I've been pondering it since I first arrived. There is something about the air here. It feels cleaner, more freeing."

"Where's the property?" I asked.

"Outer city limits. A cabin."

"That'll be nice. Most people can't handle the rain."

"I enjoy it."

"Me, too."

Once the car finished climbing the hill of a small private drive, Lecter put it in park. I watched him peer through the darkness at my quiet home, the only noise coming from the black silhouette being the persistent barking of my dog.

Walking from my car and across the lawn, I immediately felt off. I sensed that there was something significantly wrong with the atmosphere, the ideal feeling of safety that my house was designed to have no longer respected but tampered with. It wasn't entirely explainable, but I knew. I know my home. I knew that it wasn't what it was supposed to be.

"Is something wrong?" Lecter asked beside me.

I had stopped moving, I realized, and was standing numbly in my front yard while Bro barked on.

"I installed motion detectors," I answered. "They should be on right now."

For a brief moment, we both stood and stared at my dark house together. It wasn't until Dr. Lecter started towards it did I speak again.

"Wait-"

"Stay here," he said over his shoulder.

Ignoring him, I trailed behind Lecter as we approached the front door. It was still locked, but even after unlocking the mechanism, I continued to be on edge.

"Ada, you should remain outside," said Lecter.

"Dr. Lec-, Hannibal," I began. "Please."

Even though it was still dark and I could barely make out his face, I knew that Dr. Lecter was staring me down. It was as if I could feel the power of those eyes of his. I still ignored him. He didn't try to dissuade me, and using our phones as flashlights, we stepped into my house's front lobby.

Bro was growling at my companion, but after I smoothed his back, his snarling ceased.

"It's okay," I soothed. To be clear, I'm not entirely sure if I was telling that to Bro or myself. It did more for him.

Dr. Lecter flicked the light switches of the front lobby and my living room, his eyes studying everything within their walls.

"I'll check the lower level and you can run upstairs," I said. "You have my permission to enter my bedroom."

"Ada-"

"Hannibal, I'm not afraid. Please stop trying to argue with me."

Before he could say another word, I turned down the hallway and began investigating on my own. I heard Lecter's footfalls as he took to the stairs, his steps continuing to sound above me as he walked about the second level.

To be honest, I wasn't quite sure what to look for. Nothing appeared overtly out of place. I'm not a clean freak anyway, so it wasn't like I'd really be aware of much difference. After checking the garage and seeing that the controls to my security lights had in fact been tampered with, the device in sleep mode, I realized that I was in a position that I hadn't been in for a long time. I was fearful. My safety was always challenged whenever I brought clients to my house, especially the ones who posed more of a pathological mindset in our sessions. Still, I trusted that they wouldn't bother me due to our strict agreements. Like I said, I wasn't quite sure what to look for. Someone had been in my house. Who it was didn't really matter to me. There were some strong contenders. Why said person had entered, that was the true question on my mind.

"The upstairs was undisturbed."

A scream rose and died in my throat, my nerves alit like fire from hearing someone suddenly so close behind me. I didn't even hear him coming. Or maybe I was just too lost in thought. Either way I almost wet my pants in front of Dr. Lecter who stood idly in the garage's threshold.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said gently, but I doubted the words. Based on the obvious grin he was trying to suppress, I knew that he was making fun of me. His eyes had brightened again and my cheeks burned at seeing him so smug.

"You didn't," I lied. "I was, I was just thinking that maybe I'm being too paranoid is all. I'm sure no one broke in or anything like that."

"Did you check your light system?"

"Yes. They're fine. Maybe it was a short or whatever in the system. I don't know."

Bro and I stepped around Dr. Lecter, my sights set on the comfort of my living room. After getting out of my heels and flopping on the couch, I finally allowed myself to relax. All my muscles, the nerves in my skin, and my pounding anxious heart calmed and melted in the cushions. The day had been long, and laying on my couch was like a final hallelujah.

But, I had a witness.

"Ada," prompted a man's voice.

Turning my head, I took in the sight of Dr. Lecter. He stood by the front door with his black blazer rolled in his arms. His hair was a little mussed, the short bangs flicked upward. Overall, it wasn't a bad view.

"Yes?"

He hesitated for a moment, his mouth opening and closing quickly, but whatever he had to say, he settled the matter in his mind and came out with it.

"Though we did not find an intruder, I'm not comfortable with the idea of leaving you alone here."

"I'll be fine-"

"Please," he said. "I'm not trying to disrespect you in your own house, Ada, but I wouldn't be able to forgive myself should I leave you here alone and something terrible happen to you."

A pause. It crept in at his last words, and I weighed them within it. It's not every day that I'm defied like that. I kind of liked it.

"What do you propose, Hannibal?" I said, attention honed on the man in black.

"You call Mitzy and make arrangements with her, find a hotel for the night, or stay with me."

"Or," I added. "You stay _here_ with me."

I could have laughed at how his eyes blinked after my suggestion, but I didn't. This was no time for such behavior, and as the night was clearly going to continue to unfold, I needed to be more serious about my thoughts regarding Dr. Lecter.

"Or I spend the night here with you, yes," he agreed.

"You're very stubborn," I commented with a grin.

"And you're not?" he countered.

"I'm fully capable of defending myself. Plus, I have a dog. A dog with a stigma."

"And yet, as compelling as such an argument is, I still stand against it. Stubbornly against it."

With a heavy sigh, I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my palms. There was no shaking him. The man had a point.

"Fine," I exasperated dramatically. "You may watch over me. But only because Mitzy's probably asleep and I'm too lazy to leave my house. Also, for the record, this is not an act of submission."

"This is not an act of submission," he echoed, a taste of humor in his tone.

I rose, passing Dr. Lecter as he laid his blazer on the back of the couch.

"Are you above sweat pants?" I questioned. "Because I have some of Adrian's clothes here if you would like to change into something more comfortable."

"I am not above sweat pants, Miss Ada."

Eventually, the two of us were settled in nicely for our bizarre, adult sleepover. Dressed in t-shirts and sweatpants with glasses filled with the wine that Lecter had bought earlier in the night, we sat together on my couch in my living room. The hour was close to midnight, but I didn't feel tired. How could I?

"Don't worry," I told him after taking in the intoxicating aroma of the wine in my glass. It was a pleasant mixture of bitter sweetness, that rare happy place that non-wine drinkers such as myself lavish in. Plus, based on the label it was expensive as hell. Can't beat that.

After receiving a questioning look from my guest, I elaborated.

"I'm not going to have sex with you."

Dr. Lecter, I'm assuming not quite sure as what to say to that, stopped mid-sip.

"Is that what you thought I was assuming of the situation, Miss Ada?" he then asked.

"I have no idea what you're assuming. You're hard to read."

"As are you."

I scoffed.

"I'm pretty easy to understand. I don't like hiding things."

"So you say. Were you expecting me to want to have sex with you?"

"Partially."

"Why is that?"

"Grossly stereotyping the male gender. And my sister's persuasion, but I'll have you know, I'm not that kind of person."

"Kind of person," he mimicked.

"To sleep around with men that I've barely known over a month's time, especially after a night of drinking. That would be…"

"Irresponsible," he finished.

"Yes," I said with a nod. "That."

"You claim not to be such a woman, yet you are more believing in that I am that sort of man."

I frowned and immediately realized that I might have recklessly wounded his character. The accusation was not intended at all, at least not in a serious manner. Carefully, I backtracked.

"From my experience, men only want very few things from me. Aside from academia, the requests made by those of the opposite gender have been more focused on the flesh."

"Sex."

"Precisely. It was wrong of me to assume that you were one of those types, Hannibal. Do you forgive me?"

There, that seemed to make it all better. My apology appeared to melt away the slight rigidity in his shoulders and mouth. A smile danced in his eyes.

"Of course," he answered. "You are forgiven, Miss Ada."

We took another long swig of wine, each having some form of smirk on our mouths. His was understated, mine crooked.

"Would you sleep with me if there were different circumstances?" I asked shamelessly.

The man glanced down at his glass as he swirled the dark liquid around and around. Pondering. Thoughtful.

"I must admit, I'm very curious as to where your questions are coming from," he said.

"Are you offended by them?"

"Not at all. I appreciate how vulnerable you're being with me. Still, I have to know."

"To see if you'd answer truthfully. That's why I'm asking."

"I see. I had forgotten that you pride yourself in your abilities to catch a lie," he stated. "I'm not so easily made uncomfortable. That truth, you will learn quickly of me, Miss Ada. The topic of sex is no exception, but, to answer your question, I must ask my own: What do you mean by different circumstances?"

"No alcohol involved."

"Is that a necessary aspect?" he asked.

Hidden. Unreadable. I wasn't quite sure where he was going.

"I'd prefer not to be intoxicated. That's not really becoming of anyone. But, if I'm buzzed, like I am currently, then no. I suppose alcohol isn't a barrier entirely."

"Then, yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Then, yes, I would sleep with you if you were sober or buzzed as you claim to be now."

"Sexually?"

I saw it, a true grin ripple across his face before he tasted his wine again. It crinkled his skin and pulled at those pretty lips. I won. I successfully made Dr. Lecter genuinely smile.

"Yes," he said light-heartedly. "Sexually."

"Would we be fucking or…?"

"Or?"

"Or would it be, I don't know, "gentle"?"

"Depends on the mood."

"We agreed no alcohol."

"True, but what time of day?"

Inwardly, I was enjoying myself very much. I liked that he was playing this game with me, no matter how childish it all seemed. How fun people are when they let go of inhibitions. Or, at least the appearance of them.

"Night. Obviously."

"Why obviously?" he pressed.

"Because I'd be awake."

"It would be a very discouraging thing for you to fall asleep during our sexual experience," he said lightly. "Sober, night time, what else?"

"You tell me."

"This is your fantasy, Ada."

"You're in it, _Dr._ Lecter."

At my clear challenge, his eyes seemed to have darkened. I shot him a knowing look before finishing off my glass of wine.

"I'm bored," I declared abruptly.

"Am I boring you?" he asked, his brows raising in the slightest.

"Yes."

A small frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, the light in his eyes dimming as well.

"You're hard to read and I'm too tired to make you tell me things," I continued. "Therefore, I'm bored."

"What would you like to know of me?"

"I already said, remember? "The depths of who you are"."

"I think Mitzy already ruined that surprise for you," he mused.

Changing my tone into something more level, less playful, I said to him, "That man at the bar, that wasn't you."

"Are you certain of that?" said Dr. Lecter.

"Absolutely. You're still not yourself, even now."

His lips pursed. The amusement in his eyes had completely faded by then.

"Your analytical side is showing, Ada," he said to me in a clinical tone, the kind you hear in an acquaintance.

"I know."

"I am capable of being honest," he said. "I want you to know that."

"We all are. It's when we choose not to that makes me wary."

"Let's play your game then," he offered, setting down his wine glass on the glass table in front of the couch. "The one that abides by the laws of reciprocation."

"You really want to?"

"If it'll help you trust me, then yes. I'll do anything."

"Okay," I said. "You go first. Start small, please."

My colleague resettled on the couch, legs crossed and shoulders squared. His hands rested in his lap, and he wore a veil of sweet serenity. Statuesque and handsome, Dr. Lecter managed to appear even more intimidating.

"Do you like your job?" he said.

"Yes. Why did you move?"

"I needed to get away. Start somewhere new. When was your last intimate relationship?"

"A year ago. What did you need to get away from?"

He took in a breath.

"An unpleasant work environment," he exhaled. "Why did it end?"

"Why did what end?"

"Your last relationship."

"I don't know. He disappeared."

"How?" he questioned.

"Nope, my turn," I said lightly. "What made your work environment unpleasant back in Baltimore?"

"Multiple reasons, the main being the impolite nature of those I worked with. How did he disappear? The man in your last relationship."

And there on the couch with my dog sleeping at my hip and a handsome gentleman staring across from me I felt as if I was at a crossroads. The conversation could have gone in two directions. I could lie and say that my ex had cheated on me and ran off with another woman. I could lie and say that he took a job offer somewhere else and that our relationship took a backseat to his work. I could lie and say that we had a falling out, that we just couldn't make some form of social difference work between us, and the relationship that transpired was neglected and passed away like unwanted babies in the wilderness of ancient time. Plenty of opportunity to lie.

But I didn't. I went with option two. I didn't want to lie to Hannibal Lecter.

"I really don't know," I said. "One day he stopped calling and I never heard from him again."

"That sounds unsettling."

"It was. I suppose. We had dated for over a year, and at first I was worried for him, but I eventually moved on. Whatever happened, it must have carried some level of importance. We never lived together, and his things were gone when I stopped by his place to check on him."

"I wish to ask another question."

"You may."

"Does your ex-boyfriend have any impact on your difficulties with attachment?"

It was my turn to offer up a close-lipped smile, one that was polite but did not feel authentic to me.

"Your analytical side is showing, Hannibal."

"I know it is."

Placing my glass beside his, I answered, "No. It does not impact my difficulties with attachment. I believe that they were already hard at work at impacting my relationship prior to his leaving me, as evidenced by my choice to not move in with him and my lack of interest in his whereabouts."

Sitting beside him, I felt like a specimen. He did what I had been, examining every minute feature of my face with his eyes.

Instead of allowing him to wonder about what I said, I chose to interrupt his thought process.

"Maybe that's why he left me," I said.

"Perhaps."

"What is your type?"

Lecter appeared confused so I clarified.

"In women. Blondes? Brunettes?"

"I have no preferences. Do you?"

"I like ruthless men," I answered. "The kind with plans for their lives, and the ambition to get what they want without having to ask."

"Was your ex ruthless?"

"Yes, he was a defense attorney."

"Do you think I'm ruthless?" he asked with a coy smile.

"That remains to be seen," I said. "We've already established that you're stubborn, Hannibal. And, a free confession, I am somewhat attracted to that."

Standing up, I reached forward and picked up the two wine glasses from the table. I felt him watching me from the living room as I stalked into the kitchen, my own mind set on not looking at the man. After setting them in the sink, I returned to the room where Lecter resided and stood in front of him. He looked at me expectantly, and I couldn't help but smile at his innocent expression.

"I'm going to bed before I do something that I might regret," I told him.

"What would that be, Miss Ada?" he asked softly.

I know myself. I know what happens when I allow myself to stay too long with company that I'm interested in. I also knew that the fearlessness that I possessed in asking Lecter all those appallingly honest and intimate questions wasn't done without liquid courage. Four glasses worth.

"I'll leave that to your imagination, Mr. Hannibal," I replied. "Sweet dreams."

With a grin, I started to move away from Dr. Lecter and towards the stairs. Just when I was about to be out of range, I felt his hand grip my wrist. He gave my arm a short tug, making me move back to stand in front of him.

"Can I help you?" I questioned plainly.

"Let me try something," he murmured.

Slowly, his other hand rose from his lap and extended up towards me. I watched it move in the space between my body and his, my focus only leaving it to take in the face of Dr. Lecter. He wore a look of wonder, as if he himself didn't know what was going to happen next. Then, with great care, his hand caressed my face, his warm palm cradling my cheek. The pad of his thumb ran over the flesh by my eye, gentle and soothing. My eyes closed at the feeling of his touch, fearful yet relieved at the same time.

"There," I heard him breathe.

I opened my eyes again to look at the man on my couch, his own eyes bright and full of life.

"We're making progress, Ada."

The walk from the living room to my bed felt like a dream. Weightless, I don't even remember climbing into bed and shutting off my lamp. Staring at my ceiling, my thoughts were blank. With his touch alone, Hannibal had wiped my mind clean.

* * *

><p><strong>This chapter is pretty long, partially because of all the thought I put into it. Thank you for the kind reviews thus far. I truly appreciate them. Blessings, TCR.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

At the aged feet of a brass statue, some dead government official, I think, I was seated in a park that was about a fifteen minute drive from my property. The air was frigid with bitter winds that tousled my hair, and while I shivered on the bench Bro padded about in the grass a few yards away, happy and seemingly ignorant of the temperature. With a gloved hand, I tucked the hair back in place beneath my knitted hat, my eyes again skirting the sidewalk and lawn of the park in search of Will Graham. I hadn't been there long. Maybe ten minutes or so. But, with the amount of excitement pulsing through my veins I felt as if I was waiting forever. When he at last emerged around the corner, dressed, too, winter ready in a pea coat and protective cap, I couldn't help but smile widely at seeing him.

"There you are," I greeted as the man approached.

Graham regarded me with a short nod as he drew closer and sat down. I quickly noted on the dark circles that pooled under his somber eyes, the telling marks of a troubled sleeper. I guess I'm not the only one.

"What's his name?" he asked, his hand gesturing to my pet.

"Oh, that's Bro. He's Adrian's, but I've been watching him."

"Your brother's dog. I suppose the name suits him."

I called my dog over, entertained at the sight of Graham petting him, a hint of a smile teasing at his lips and eyes while his gloved hands rubbed Bro's head and back. It was probably the closest thing to happiness that I would ever get out of the man.

"Sorry about earlier," I told him. "About before at the center."

"That was a very heated conversation," he said. "Can't say I blame you. Jack, he's-"

"An asshole."

"-ambitious."

"Is it because of your investigation?"

"Yes," replied Graham coolly. When I gave him a curious look, he added, "Unlike others in the past, this case, it, it hits closer to home for most of us at the bureau."

"Oh."

"And considering," started Graham with his attention detaching from my dog to latch on to my face, "the note that we parted on, Dr. Ives, I'm very interested to know the reason as to why you called."

I leaned back against the chipped wood behind me. Yes, the reasoning for my choice to call on Will Graham, the decision that I weighed this way and that on the scales of my mind like some valued gem. It wasn't easy to choose it. We all have those passages in our histories that set us stubbornly in our ways, and my passage regarding the FBI definitely made me want to turn the other direction.

But, I called him. I did. And by the end of our conversation on that park bench, I wish that I hadn't.

In the end, I wish that I never came back to Washington. I wish that I never boarded that plane. I wish that I never left Adrian in the first place. Not at Vashon, but way, way, way back when we were kids. I should have never left him there. I'm still so sorry.

Heated, the back of my thighs to the top of my shoulders steadily rose in temperature. I was at home, weeks before my time on that bench with Will Graham, during a night that was very different than the usual schedule my days had fallen accustomed to. While tangled in my bed sheets, I started to sweat, a thin layer glazing my skin like sticky jungle mist.

"Relax."

It purred in my ear, a cold, masculine voice. But it was special. There was something else, something different in how he spoke to me.

When it respired, its belly pressed lazily against my spine. The hairs on its arm brushed my stomach. They itched my skin and I could do absolutely nothing about it.

I couldn't move at all.

"Breathe, Ada," the being hummed against my hair.

My mouth parted to say something, anything, but I was immediately silenced by a shallow pressure pressing against my throat. Right on my pulse. It had risen from the other side of my bed, whatever was holding me, and its mouth, soft yet urgent, moved against my neck.

A kiss.

I felt the hot breath of its exhale, a shuddering release. Something inside me, something feral, tightened at how its skin rubbed against mine. I quivered. There was then a hollow noise, sharp, deeply breathing in as if it was inhaling my scent, like it was vital oxygen. When it breathed out again, a calloused hand pulled at my hip, pushing my backside hard against its groin. I gasped.

"We're making progress," the being groaned. It repeated the motion. I jerked. "Remember?"

My lungs filled with air as if I had breached the surface of the sea, a desperate and gasping pile of breaths that I took in greedily while my eyes flitted about.

Awake.

Safe.

Another dream.

I was welcomed by the morning, the sunlight lighting my room with the warmth and comfort of true reality.

Quickly, I shifted and with a great amount of relief I saw that the other side of my bed was empty. I touched the space, as if it would flutter away like startled birds, my sanity.

"Christ," I mumbled, laughing nervously after. I laughed again.

I couldn't help but laugh. A twisted, bizarre, sensual dream left me in a disturbed, prickly arousal. Everything had felt so real, effortlessly, incandescently real, his smell, his voice, and the skin on my throat still sizzled from the touch of the being's lips. I could feel my cheeks reddening. They stung as my fingertips traced the spot by my jawline. If I closed my eyes, I swear I could almost feel its mouth again.

My time of reflection would be cut short. I had mere moments of privacy before a soft knock sounded from my bedroom door. Immediately, I flinched.

"Who is it?" I blurted, my mind struggling to keep up with the present time. It didn't even register the fact that someone was in my house in the first place, much less outside my room. At least this possible murderer had the decency to knock, I half thought.

"It's me," answered the being on the other side of my door, clearly a man. My brow furrowed. "Hannibal," it simplified. "May I come in, Ada?"

Hannibal Lecter, I recalled. Duh. Who else would it be? He spent the night on my couch downstairs to look out for me. We had drinks with my sister. He was still at my home, waiting in my hallway.

"Um," was all I managed to reply with as I looked down at my flushed, naked body. "Give me a minute."

Throwing my sheets off and leaping into action, I hastily searched for the clothes that I had discarded the night before. After slinging on a sports bra and t-shirt, and choosing bravely to go commando beneath my sweat pants, I opened the door.

And there he was, my fetching European guest standing regally in my doorway. Unlike me, he was no longer swamped in frumpy pajamas, no, of course not. Dr. Lecter was dressed fashionably in a navy chambray shirt with a granite, shawl collar cardigan draped snugly on top. He wore fitted dark jeans that trailed down to meet a set of leather dress shoes. A chic watch was the finishing statement piece, designer brand peaking behind his shirt's cuff. Not a hair was out of place. Prim. Proper. A heavy contrast to how I looked and felt.

"Good morning, Miss Ada," he greeted with a kind smile. I saw how his eyes skirted my body, probably taking in my messy top bun and wrinkled shirt in horror.

Before I said anything, a part of Dr. Lecter caught my attention more so than it ever had. His mouth. Lips that rested tenderly on his face, they drew in my focus right after he spoke. Without permission, my mind ventured to my erotic dream. I hungrily wondered what his lips would feel like against my skin. Like velvet, I imagined.

"Did you sleep well?" he added, a funny expression beginning to settle in on his face from my lack of response.

Leaving his mouth, my eyes flickered up at the man's ocher eyes.

"Yeah," I said. "I, um, had a weird dream, but otherwise I think I slept great."

The corners of that pretty mouth tugged into another tranquil grin. I refused to openly gawk at it again.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Dr. Lecter. "I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty to make brunch for us this morning. Would you like to join me in your kitchen?"

"You made brunch?" I parroted. "What time is it?"

"11:30. Come, follow me."

The man began walking down the hall with me following close behind. I kept my eyes on his sandy, brown hair, noting on the strands of silver that glistened as he moved.

"How long have you been up?" I asked casually as we took to the stairway.

At the bottom step awaited Bro, apparently already smitten with my guest and joining us to our trek to the kitchen. My dog didn't even growl at Dr. Lecter as the doctor pat the top of his furred head in passing.

"Not for too long," Lecter answered.

"But you changed clothes," I said. "Wait, did you go home?"

My colleague peered at me from over his shoulder, an amused glint alit in his eyes.

"How about we sit first," he suggested. "That way when you interrogate me you will at least be comfortable."

"I'm so sorry," I said to him in a breathy exhale. With a meek smile, I added, "It's just, I feel like a terrible host. You've been awake for so long, and…you cooked?"

"Of course. What else did you think I meant?"

We had reached my kitchen and my eyes widened at the display that welcomed me. On one plate were piles of crisped bacon, browned sausage links, and cuts of ham, the meat seasoned and steaming. Beside it was a medium size bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs with various mixed greens stirred along with them, as well as a portion of small, hardy red potatoes on the side. Two separate pitchers of milk and orange juice also joined the selection, plus a few slices of buttered toast and a small serving of fresh strawberries.

I was astounded at the preparation and effort, how the table was even set, garnishes, folded napkins and all. Some of the bowls I recognized to be my own, but glancing at the loaded sink full of used silver bowls and cooking ware, it was clear that my kitchen supplies were not up to task for what Dr. Lecter had in mind for a decent breakfast.

The smell in the air was drool worthy, a heavy cloud of grease and seasonings. How could I have not noticed before? Oh right, I was too focused on his shiny hair and the fact that he was leading me through my own house.

"What the hell," I said, my eyes marveling at the sight of my kitchen turned B & B.

"Is everything to your liking?"

Turning to Dr. Lecter, I saw that he was waiting for a legitimate answer, focus sharpened in anticipation.

"Of course!" I exclaimed. "I'm just blown away!"

His mild smile returned in satisfaction. Pulling out a chair, he wordlessly encouraged me to sit, but it wasn't until after he poured me a glass of juice and took his place across from me did Dr. Lecter speak again.

"Tell me, Ada, about this dream you had."

The being's groans. The heat of his flesh. The sounds and sensations of my dream bubbled in me like champagne, but I withheld any hint of their existence from the man on the other side of the table as much as I humanly could.

As pleasant and natural as possible, I said, "It was nothing special. I hardly remember it now."

"That's a shame, but unfortunately dreams tend to be elusive that way. I wish you could tell it to me because when you first opened your bedroom door, you seemed shaken."

"Probably because I was. For a minute I forgot you spent the night."

"And I suppose having a disturbing night's sleep didn't help," Lecter suggested. "I apologize if I startled you."

"It's fine. But you know, now that I think about it, I think you were in it. In my dream."

Dr. Lecter paused from his meal to send me a slight, mischievous look. Those enigmatic eyes of his stared in my own and though it was subtle, I believe I saw the good doctor smirking. Inwardly, I was applauding my bravery for even mentioning it.

"I think it was your voice," I continued. "Not your face or anything, but that accent of yours made an appearance. I think. I don't know. The longer I think about it the more I doubt it was there."

"I hope I wasn't the one causing your anxiety."

"Who knows?" I offered before drinking more juice. "Maybe you were after all."

After setting down the glass and looking over the food in front of me, I met eyes with Dr. Lecter again.

"I feel awful," I confessed. "Worse than before."

"Why is that?" he said while extending out his arm. His hand found the handle to the spoon in one of the larger bowls, serving me a generous portion of eggs. I smiled in gratitude.

"Because," I started, "You're supposed to be _my _guest and here you are serving _me_ breakfast."

The man chuckled as if what I said was meant to be some sort of joke. Short and understated. I liked the sound.

"Miss Ada, I assure you that cooking is something that I take pride in. This was no chore, but a gift that I was happy to deliver to you. Also, with unconventional circumstances such as ours, I believe that social rules can be ignored, if temporarily."

"Did you really go home and change?" I asked.

"I did."

"And I didn't hear a thing."

"I was careful," said Lecter. "Plus, you must have been exhausted."

"Or intoxicated," I added with a grin before taking a bite of bacon. The grease smothered my tongue as it melted there. I could have groaned.

"You weren't intoxicated. Loose, maybe, but you certainly weren't obnoxious."

"Oh, good," I said with a touch of sarcasm. Less sardonically I said to him, "Thank you for the breakfast, Hannibal, and for staying last night even though I was opposed to the idea of needing anyone. You didn't have to stick around, but you did anyway and I appreciate that a lot."

"You're very welcome, Miss Ada. Should something happen to you last night and I had not been here, I would have never been able to forgive myself."

My mind thought briefly on the suspiciousness of my coming home, how clearly someone had been in my house while I was away.

As if reading my mind, Dr. Lecter asked, "Even though we didn't find any evidence, would anyone you know want to break in?"

"Why do you think it would be someone who knows me?"

Dr. Lecter glanced down at his plate, paused for a second, then stared back at me.

"As a person who understands the nature of our work," he began, "I see that those we try to help and lend understanding to tend to see the boundaries between client and therapist as blurred lines. In my own experience, my privacy has been invaded. I would hate for that to be the case for you, Ada."

"I think I'm okay," I said quietly. "I don't have anything to hide."

Negating eye contact, I saw the bowl of strawberries resting on the table. I then reached across and plucked a fat one from the pile, my teeth tearing into the flesh and letting the juices drip into my mouth. Some of the sweet liquid ended up running off my lips and down my chin before I could stop it. I made a face, part of me realizing that the time for maintaining my dignity before Dr. Lecter was long gone and dead in the ground. I could have laughed at how horrendous I must've looked.

"If you need anything," said the doctor, "You can always call."

"I don't have your number," I said while wiping my mouth with a napkin.

"Then I will give it to you."

"And you'll get mine?"

It was my turn to send him a knowing look of my own, but instead of appearing caught or even a bit embarrassed, the man displayed no emotion at all. His skin had smoothed once more into a mask of cool indifference.

"Naturally," he answered. "Ada, you do realize that you were mistaken last night?"

"Oh, I'm sure I was at some point," I murmured. "But how exactly?"

"About how long we have known one another. You said that you don't sleep with men that you've known only over a month's time."

I winced at his recollection, at hearing my own words repeated back to me. Damn alcohol.

"I did," I said. "I mean, I don't. I don't sleep with men that I've only known for that long."

"I believe you," he reassured with a smile. "However, you and I have only known each other for about two weeks. Do you realize that?"

My brow creased as realization slowly settled in. It really hadn't been that long, had it? Only two weeks? I counted them, the days, and sure enough he was right. For me, it was a hard pill to swallow, that I had ventured so far as to allow a near stranger to stay over in my home, my place of safety for myself and others.

Maybe that was it, that Dr. Lecter's position in my process at compartmentalizing people was so unclear, not a stranger but not quite a friend either. Or was he? A friend, I mean. A friend would stay and protect someone, right? Cook her meals. Meet her family. Ask for her number. I don't know. He is a gentleman, too. But I still don't know about him. I don't know about anyone, but Adrian.

"Really?" I managed to ask. "Huh."

"Our flight from the U.K. landed about two weeks ago, yes," he said, seemingly unfazed by my pause in thought.

Surprised, all I could offer the man after receiving his correction was a chuckle and a limp shrug of a shoulder.

"Welp, that's a shocker," I said. "I feel like I've known you longer than that. Especially now. You've seen me in my pajamas."

Lecter pleasantly gazed at me from across the table.

"As do I, Miss Ada. And I like your pajamas. Tell me, what are your plans for the rest of the day?"

"Clients at one, and a visit to see my brother."

"And tonight?"

I stopped mid-bite to lower my hand. His eyes were locked with my own, waiting but still managing to carry a soft spectacle of innocence.

"Dr. Lecter," I began. "While I've liked all of this-"

"All of this?"

"The sweetness," I told him. "You're a sweet man, Hannibal."

He tilted his head at that, his own subdued smile gracing his face as if my words were some sort of inside joke. I continued.

"You're a gentleman, and I feel like I should make something clear since you've been so good to me. To be fair to you."

"I'm listening."

"I don't date. Especially not those in my field of study."

A small silence followed my declaration, and after waiting for about three seconds, Dr. Lecter nodded and filled his mouth with another bite of sausage. He swallowed before his lips parted.

"That's good to know, Miss Ada," he replied lightly.

I frowned. He sipped his milk.

"Oh," I said. "This is good news?"

"Why absolutely," he answered. "I don't date either. We have yet another thing in common."

Dr. Lecter finished what was on his plate and set his napkin on the table. I watched him, my mind trying to absorb what his words could mean. Before I was able to offer any form of saving grace, the man rose from his seat, and seeing that my glass was empty, Dr. Lecter then took the opportunity to fill it with more juice.

What he said next, I didn't see coming.

"I pursue."

His voice sounded above me, near and with a new seriousness in his tone. He was standing behind my chair, his arm reaching over my shoulder to put down the pitcher. I looked him in the eyes, the spell of those reddish brown orbs of his cast and taking me in.

"You pursue," I echoed.

"I do. Dating is so banal these days. Society treats it like a formula, an obvious equation with an unsurprising outcome. I find it boring."

"So in pursuing…"

"In pursuing, Miss Ada, there is a constant chase in which the outcome is not so easily calculated and where permission is seldom taken into account. It's a forgotten courtesy."

I didn't know what to say. Not immediately, anyway. There was so much thought into his words, the subject of dating clearly pondered before in his head. It was refreshing to be startled this way, making me dwell on choosing my own words carefully.

"Sounds pretty animalistic, Hannibal. By your definition, I mean."

"Are we not all animals in the end, Miss Ada? Going by our basic instincts to get what we want?"

"So I don't have a choice?"

A feigned expression of shock lit his features.

"You always have a choice," said Dr. Lecter. "Over yourself and your actions. But for me, I intend to pursue the things I want with the utmost cordiality and ruthlessness."

"Cordiality mixed with ruthlessness. Can't wait to see that. And with seldom bits of permission allotted, too. Just so I know, how much is seldom?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you like to dance around my questions," I mused. "The important ones, that is."

I knew that he was being playful, or at least I guessed that Dr. Lecter was teasing me. I hoped so. I haven't known him that long, apparently, but the quality of the time that I have spent with the man has been pleasant and fun so far. Would hate for things to get too serious.

"I like to keep you guessing, Miss Ada. I will admit to that," he said, offering a coy wink in my direction.

The bite of a blush tickled my cheeks and instead of looking at him anymore, I finished my plate like a shy preteen in a middle school cafeteria.

After insisting, strongly insisting, that Dr. Lecter leave the dishes for me to clean without his help, he announced that he best be off.

"I never heard an answer regarding your evening plans," he said in the front lobby as he shrugged on a brown leather jacket.

"That's because I never gave one, Mr. Hannibal."

At seeing his expression smooth, I quirked an eye brow.

"Oh no, don't give me _that_ look!" I said. "I have the right to be reserved just as you do. And to be honest, I really have no idea how long I will be with my brother this afternoon."

Hesitantly, Dr. Lecter softened a bit at my explanation, but I still saw a trace of impatience tense the skin around them.

"Fine then," he said. "The chase continues."

"That it does. We have each other's numbers now though. Plus, I do need to get your dishes and stuff to you someday, don't I?"

"Yes, I am thankful for that much. For now. Have a wonderful day, Miss Ada Ives. Please call if you ever feel unsafe."

"Will do."

Once the deadbolt to my front door was secured and Dr. Lecter's car drew out of sight, I permitted myself to fully smile. To _grin _like a giddy teenager because goddamit was the man courteous, intelligent, playful, and absolutely good looking.

What does one do with someone like Dr. Lecter? It was too good, too ideal. His charm seems to know no bounds, and his gentlemanly manner is so stimulating that it leaves me breathless in the most elusive ways. In my mind I pictured his face after I opened my bedroom door, amused but not condescending at seeing my disheveled appearance, especially since he was dressed and ready for the day. There was something about him, a show of manners that I have failed to witness in the men around town.

I mean, I'm sure there are good guys in Seattle. They just seem to repel from me.

"And you like him, too, don't cha?" I said to Bro on the couch. His sticky tongue lapped at my cheek as I held his rubbery face in my hands. "I guess I do as well, Broseph. The man can cook after all."

As swimmingly as things seemed to have gone that morning, it would be awhile before I saw the man again. About a week after he stayed the night, he called early one afternoon. Hearing his voice over the phone excited me, mostly because by then I had dissolved the thoughts of romanticism regarding Dr. Lecter, and listening to him say that he wished to get together for dinner soon was a happy surprise. Apparently he was travelling out of town for a bit to visit friends and wouldn't be in the area for another week or so. I would have to wait it would seem. I was told to be patient, and even without seeing his mouth I had a strong feeling that it was smiling as he said goodbye.

I was sitting on my porch when I hung up, my eyes peering out from under the safety of the roof to stare at the fat droplets of rain hitting my lawn. It had been pouring all day, a sight that I was all too used to yet never loathed.

Before the feelings of excitement could really flutter in me, my phone began to ring again. Seeing the name of the contact, Vashon Mental Recovery and Rehabilitation Center, my concern rose to a more sickening degree, a total turn around in a moment's notice. Things pretty much went downhill from there.

"This is Dr. Ives," I said into the receiver.

"Dr. Ives? Hi, it's Dr. Beckett."

"Is Adrian alright?" I pressed.

"Adrian is fine, but there are two men from the FBI here and they've requested to question him. I said that you must be present for any conversation with Adrian, but one insisted that they start without you. The man, um, said that talking to Adrian is imperative to an investigation-"

"I'm on my way."

I didn't even bother to say goodbye. My phone was tucked in my back pocket, keys snatched, and I was off a moment later.

Sometimes, well, often, I feel that I'm very obvious about what I'm feeling, as if I radiate emotion like the toxins at Chernobyl. For example, when I arrived at the mental health facility about thirty minutes after I hung up the phone, I believe that the staff there could sense my hostility the second my foot hit the tile of the front lobby. Or maybe it was when I parked in the parking lot. Either or, they all seemed to have widened eyes and an air of caution about them, as if I was some savage creature thirsting for blood. Which, I mean, I was, but they didn't know that. Not exactly.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Ives-"

"Where's Dr. Beckett?" I asked briskly of the woman behind the counter.

"He's, he's just past the front perimeter, mam-"

"Thank you."

I was buzzed past the security measure without another word, and at seeing Dr. Beckett waiting for me at the end of the long hall past the barrier, I could see his face fall into further dismay.

"I'm so sorry, Ada," he said as led me across a foyer and through another entryway. "They just came in, flashed their IDs, and said that they couldn't wait and-"

"It's okay, Adam," I told him. "Not every day that you have a man at your facility that's so popular with the government like my brother is. Like a fucking celebrity."

"He really is, isn't he?"

"Yep. Unfortunately."

Finally, after weaving about more security measures and hallways, we came to an interrogation room nestled in the depths of the facility. Dr. Beckett opened the thick door for me, saying to call him if things got out of hand. I stepped in and immediately looked through the wide, glass window and saw Adrian sitting at a metal table, his eyes dull and blinking at a man who sat across from him. Their words carried over a speaker system.

"…not in any kind of trouble, Adrian," said the stranger. Conversational. Casual. "I'm sure your sister is on her way, but before she gets here, I'd like to just talk to you about-"

"You're hiding from my sister?" asked my brother plainly. "That's awfully cowardly of you, Mr. Crawford, to go behind a family member's back like that. Crafty, but not that classy in the long run. Can't blame you though. Ada is a bit of a hell raiser."

I took in a breath, my agitation growling at seeing Adrian being interrogated. Never liked the picture, the portrait of my twin painted behind one-sided glass and spoken to by someone who had the power to hold back his life. It burned my blood.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Ives."

I flinched, not even realizing that I wasn't alone. It was dark in there, on the other side of the glass where I stood, and watching from the shadows with his eyes trained on the next room was Will Graham. Looking just as gloomy as our first encounter, the man's melancholy eyes turned away from the interrogation and to my face. I would say that he almost appeared apologetic.

"Hi, what are you doing here?" I asked, closing the door behind me. "And who is that talking to Adrian?"

"That man is Jack Crawford. He's the head of the Behavioral-"

"The Behavioral Science Unit. Right, knew he seemed familiar. Now, tell me, why the fuck are you two here, Mr. Graham?"

His brow furrowed at my words, his posture straightening.

"Dr. Ives," he said quietly. "I promise that our presence is not meant to upset you. We're here only to disqualify your brother from our ongoing investigation. Nothing more."

My lips parted to speak, but the sound of a loud bang turned both of our heads back to the glass. The other man, Jack Crawford, was now standing over my brother, hands on his hips and jaw set. Adrian's eye brows were high, a nervous smirk tugging at one of his mouth's corners.

"I just asked if you had been in a hospital recently," said my brother with a touch of laughter on his tongue.

"I'm the one asking questions, Adrian. Not the other way around."

"Then don't make it so easy to piss you off, Jack. I can't resist poking at authority, remember? Oppositional defiant disorder, my biological disposition and whatnot."

Jack Crawford lingered over him, his dark eyes never breaking from my brother's. The tension carried over to the room I was in, heavy and invisible.

"Your sister seems to be doing just fine, Adrian," said Crawford. "Blaming biology probably isn't the best stance for a defense."

"You don't know Ada at all," replied my brother. "And am I on trial here?"

"Not today. I don't know the future, but I wouldn't be surprised if one day you were."

At that, my brother's amusement dimmed. That side of him that I don't want others to see, the methodical, pathological side, it started to open its eyes. Leaning towards Crawford, he looked like he might bite him.

"You smell like death," said Adrian in a lower voice. "That's what hospitals smell like. I smell it on your skin. Stale. Clinical, like this place. Clean, but not fresh. Clean like bleach."

"According to your file, Adrian, you are very acquainted with hospitals," said Crawford.

"Oh good, I was wondering if you had or not. Read my file."

"I did. Quite the read. Orphaned at five. No kin to step up and claim you and your sister. Moved from home to home. Eventually, you were adopted into a warm, caring family, but that didn't stop you, did it? Having a home didn't keep you from getting into a lot of trouble growing up."

"I'm just a stereotype," whispered my brother. "Another product of the state-"

"Your first hospital visit was after the death of your parents, but when was the second visit? Yeah, I remember, you were what, ten? When one of your fosters died? Mr. Porter."

The change of subject changed Adrian, and for the first time in years I saw him shudder. Mechanically, his mouth shut and the muscles around his neck and shoulders stiffened. His eyes fell on the table in front of him, and that's when I knew that their conversation needed to end.

However, as I stalked to the door, Will Graham moved to block my way.

"Dr. Ives, he's safe-"

"Don't talk to me like you know us, Mr. Graham," I said coldly. "Because you don't know me at all, and I am warning you that if you come in between my brother and I then I will make sure you will never forget the consequences."

Will Graham stared at me, a look of shock quickly being washed away by what appeared to be pity.

"I want my sister," muttered my brother. I could barely hear it. His voice crackled over the speaker.

My attention shifted between Graham and the glass, torn and unsure.

"Did something happen to Adrian, Dr. Ives?" Mr. Graham asked softly. "When you were young-"

"I want my sister."

My eyes flickered to the glass at the face of my brother who was growing more restless by the second. The emptiness in his eyes was now filled with a familiar energy, the power of an old rage that I've seen ever since we moved in with Mitzy's family. It shook his body and whitened his knuckles.

Without warning, I shoved past Graham and entered the room, my own fury brimming.

"Dr. Ives-" began Crawford.

"Do not speak to me," I snapped, a new venom stinging my tone. "You have violated my brother's rights, as well as undermined his road to recovery."

"Your brother has in his possession a document that is relevant to my case. I was only asking him about it, a subject that he was actively deflecting."

"Mhm, and I'm so sure, Agent Crawford, that wandering down the memory lane of his childhood was going to spark his recollection about your document."

A wrinkled forehead and flared nostrils made up the department head's face. I knew that he was agitated, no thanks to my brother's tendency to pick at scabs. I wasn't helping either.

"Adrian," I said while resting my hand on my brother's shoulder. I could feel it relax under palm. "Do you know what he's talking about?"

"No," he said with a shrug. "On my mother's life, I have no idea what he means-"

"Your group therapist told me today on the phone that you received a questioning document this morning!" countered Crawford. "Adrian, if you are lying-"

"His mail is his business!" I exclaimed. "And if he says that he doesn't have it, then-"

"Dr. Ives, I understand that you're trying to protect your brother-"

Crawford moved closer, hands up in a harmless gesture, but the second he took a step towards me things could only escalate.

I know my brother.

"Hey!" Adrian yelled.

Immediately, Adrian flipped his chair back as he moved to be between me and Jack Crawford, the sharp sound of the metal hitting the floor echoing in the small interrogation room. One of his hands ushered me behind him as he stood fiercely in front of my frame. I could see the back of his neck reddening.

"Adrian," cautioned Crawford.

Past my brother's shoulder stood a man with widened eyes whose own temper had visibly dialed down. Gone was the anger in the face and eyes of the FBI agent, instead replaced with the therapeutic carefulness universally used for crisis moments. I eased back at hearing it in his voice, the tone of the helping profession.

"I mean no harm towards your sister," continued Crawford evenly. "I'm sorry if I came off as threatening, but what I need here is for you to work with me-"

"Fuck off."

They slid off Adrian's tongue like fire, the offensive phrase that would be a part of Crawford's final warning.

"You piece of federal shit," Adrian hissed. "_Fuck_ off."

The rigidity started to come back over Crawford, but just as he was going to open his mouth to say something, Will Graham stepped in.

"Jack," he prompted gently.

The head agent didn't move an inch, his eyes still trying to bore holes in my brother's head.

"Jack," said Graham. "We need to go."

No one moved. Not my brother and neither Crawford. They held one long last look at one another, their heated stares cooking the room's atmosphere. Finally, Jack Crawford's eyes glowered at me one last time and he stormed out of the interrogation room. The loud slam of a door was heard a breath later.

"I'm sorry," muttered Graham as he peeked in our direction, his eyes seeming to linger on me. Quietly, he too, left the room, his own exit much more understated than his colleague's.

The next fifteen minutes were even more exhausting. Orderlies had been dispatched to escort my brother back to his room, and since he was clearly "distressed", they threatened to sedate him with medication. Of course, this all was said in front of Adrian, who responded with even more hostility. It was a train wreck in slow motion. The yelling, the reddened face of my brother as he threatened the orderlies, me trying to convince Adrian to calm down while warning the orderlies that physically touching him would only make things worse. I tried to argue with the staff, saying that if they just allowed Adrian to walk around outside, to get some fresh air that his mood would change for the better. I was getting virtually nowhere until I finally called Dr. Beckett. Upon his arrival, my brother visibly relaxed, even listening to Beckett's suggestion to take a seat at the metal table. After pleading my case, Dr. Beckett half-heartedly agreed that after the interrogation, a more open environment would be best instead of his white walled room in the facility. He permitted Adrian and me to walk about the facility's campus, orderly free.

My brother grinned at the news. I punched him in the ribs the moment we stepped outside.

"How did you know I wanted to come out here?" he gasped while rubbing his side.

"Because I could tell that you were lying in there," I replied, stuffing my hands in my jacket's pockets.

"How?"

A tired sigh ghosted past my lips while my eyes stared at the graveled path of the facility's outdoor trail.

"You never called her mom," I said. "At one point in there you said 'on my mother's life', but not once have you ever referred to Claire as mom. Never."

I stole a look and saw that Adrian's eyes had cast off towards the trees. For what it was worth, I took it as a silent agreement. We didn't say anything for the next few minutes, choosing to walk amongst the trail and the brush with Mother Nature navigating the conversation.

"What did you lie about?" I eventually asked after we passed a small thicket of dying grasses.

"That dickhead. What was his name? Crawford? He was right about me getting a letter this morning. The group therapist must've seen me reading it. I was right next to the man so he probably read it, too. Never trusting him again."

"He was doing his job," I said. "He's required to report something like this. Adrian, why did you lie though? I still don't get it. Do you realize how much this hurts you, lying to the FBI?"

"Because you needed to see it first. The letter. Ads, you're in it."

My steps ceased.

"What?" I asked.

"You heard me," answered Adrian nonchalantly. "You're in the letter."

When Adrian and I were kids, he liked to pretend he knew things that I didn't, like he had the keys to the universe and took pleasure of dangling them in front of my nose. Even as an adult, he occasionally wore that same smug grin. He wore it then on the trail, eyes lazy and mouth crooked.

"Well," I started, clearly annoyed. "Where is it?"

"Hidden up here. Just past the bushes."

We resumed our walk and came to a small grove of pine trees. At their skinny bases was a large rock that looked out of place, the soil around it clearly disturbed. I watched as Adrian stepped off the beaten path and slid his hand into the black dirt by the rock. From the earth, he pulled out a piece of paper, and after he brushed some of the torrential crumbs off, I saw that it was a folded envelope. He smiled at my expression, a response that irked me.

"Who sent it?" I asked while he handed it over.

The envelope felt thick in my hand. I could tell that the paper was expensive by how heavy it was, how the smell of it still lingered on the paper's surface.

"Dunno," replied Adrian with a shrug. "The name doesn't mean anything to me. The letter though, came in this morning in the most _strangest_ of ways-"

"Adrian, I swear-"

"A guard," he finally answered with the roll of the eyes. "At breakfast he pretended to hand me a napkin. The envelope was inside it. Crazy shit."

"Can I read it?"

"Yeah, but not here. I only got about ten more minutes before they make me go in for the day."

I nodded and tucked the letter in my coat. The terrain was mostly dead, but even in the winter decay, the forestation managed to hide the facility from view. For a small moment, Adrian and I were truly alone. I relished it.

"You should use this," I then said to him. "Could be advantageous."

"That's what I thought, but it won't be enough to spring me out of here."

"Probably not. I'll work on it. In the meantime, try to talk more in group. Look the part of someone trying to get better."

"I'll try. No promises."

"Okay."

And that was that. Together, my brother and I went back to the place we loathed, to his non-prison prison that would monitor his every move, word, and passing of time. I got in my car, feeling the envelope's weight in my jacket like a small anchor.

It was golden, that anchor, because sometimes life likes to give a bit of treasure to make something out of, to steady you in the storm, and to profit a person in whatever endeavor he or she is facing. Would hate to miss a chance when you have one because the bare bones of it all is that we have no one to blame but ourselves should we not cash that treasure in. How stupid are those who are given opportunity and let it walk on by like a lazy, Sunday afternoon.

So, as I sat in my living room staring at the crumbled envelope on my coffee table, dirty and unopened, I thought on opportunity and thought on the decision that I had made the moment it slipped into my waiting hand. With certainty I hit the Dial button on my phone.

"This is Will Graham," said the voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, Mr. Graham, this is Ada. Ada Ives. Do you have time for us to meet today? Just you and me?"

A pause. I smiled.

"There's a park that I like to walk my dog at around this time," I added. "We can meet there if you want."

Another pause.

"Which park?" he said.

The man that the old statue in the park was built after did some things in his life that were worth recognizing. What those achievements were, I had no clue, nor did I care to research. I've seen the statue plenty of times, but never did my eyes read the plaque that was placed boldly at his shoes.

My eyes were staring at it when I spoke to Will Graham on the bench, and I still didn't bother to read the lettering.

"I have a proposal," I said. "Say, Adrian does know something that can help you with your case."

Graham's eyes turned away from my dog to fully take me in, dreamy and uncertain. They had narrowed, too.

"This is something that should be brought to Agent Crawford, not me-"

"But I don't want to talk to Agent Crawford, Mr. Graham. I don't appreciate his ways of gaining information."

"Interrogations aren't often appreciated."

"Yes, and neither is rudeness. Adrian's spoken to the FBI upon request before. If you had formally requested I'm sure that we could have had a more civil conversation."

Graham appeared thoughtful before he leaned back into the bench. His rain cloud eyes stared ahead at the tall statue, too, as if it held the words to his part in our talk. I waited for him, more interested than impatient.

"So," he breathed. "Hypothetically, if your brother had some information that would benefit the investigation, what would he want in return?"

"I think you know what the hypothetical answer is, Mr. Graham."

He chuckled, but the sound didn't seem friendly.

"Would releasing him really be in his best interest, Dr. Ives?" he asked.

"I'm biased."

"As a psychologist, not a sister, would you agree that the transition would benefit him? Or the community?"

"What do you think?" I countered. "You're good at reading people, I've heard. What's your prognosis?"

The faded mocking expressed on his face weakened. It fell away until his face returned to its usual somberness.

"I don't know if you want to hear it," he said flatly.

"The truth is hard to hear, but I wouldn't ask, Mr. Graham, if I wasn't aware of that."

"You're not the first person to say that, Dr. Ives, and people tend to quote it before I say anything at all."

I stared at the man, unmoved by his comment, and he stared back at my challenge before at last giving up a surrendering sigh.

"From what he admitted, he was diagnosed O.D.D. and clearly still opposes authority figures. He's hostile. He doesn't trust much of anyone, and shows some potential to be manipulative of those around him."

I nodded as he listed his thoughts, surprised that he didn't list one thing in particular.

"Do you think he's a psychopath?" I asked.

His brow furrowed at my question.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because he appears to have some level of care for you. Someone who is psychopathic wouldn't be so passionately devoted to a single person. Not like he is to you, genuine and protective. That's what I got out of observing him, anyway."

"I'm glad you see that," I told him. "Not many do."

"According to his paperwork, Adrian was put into the facility's program because of attempted murder."

I frowned at his bluntness and the abrupt statement.

"That's right," I said.

"Who was it that he tried to kill?"

I swallowed and automatically called Bro over. My dog rested at my feet, panting while I stroked his back.

"Um, my sister. Mitzy," I murmured. "He tried drowning her in her pool."

"What did she do?"

"What?"

Raising my eyes, I saw that Mr. Graham was gazing ahead at the statue, a blank faced man who sounded far off somewhere else.

"Adrian is very _reactionary_," he answered. "If I was Adrian, I would be charming because I know that's how I need to behave to get by. I've perfected my methods over the years, bouncing from house to house until I was nearly perfect. But I'm not perfect. I have my moments. I have my triggers. I can be unstable. What caused him to want to drown his sister?"

"He never said," I said softly. "I wasn't there exactly when it happened. He was, um, he was aggressive at the time. They, the emergency staff, injected him with Halidol on the scene. I've been advised by his primary doctor not to broach the subject until he's farther along."

The only response I received from Graham was a weak nod. I took the opportunity to ask my own question, more so to change the subject to something other than my brother's misdeeds for a change.

"Mr. Graham, can I ask about your investigation?"

"You can, but I can't promise many answers, Dr. Ives."

"I'm just struggling to see how much a letter could benefit you," I said.

"That all depends on the content of the letter."

"Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"The recent murder of the student at Washington University has similarities to those involved in our investigation. We believe that the original perpetrator is active in the northwestern area of the country."

"Oh," I said. "Do you think you're close to catching him?"

"That's hard to say."

"Would I know his name?"

"Most likely not. He would try to keep a low profile since the Himes murder, and he's aware of our presence in Seattle."

"Tell me anyway."

Mr. Graham at last turned and stared at me, curiosity clearly drawn all over his face.

"Chances are," I began. "After the way things panned out this afternoon, Adrian won't want to talk to the FBI unless he can be released from the Vashon center. Until then, I'm the only one who he'll respond to, and if he won't talk to you, you won't be losing anything should he choose to talk to me instead."

"You want to be involved in the investigation-"

"No, I want to get my brother out of the center and back into a normal life. And no offense, I kind of hate the FBI for how they've treated him and my clients."

"Dr. Ives," he said quietly. "This really isn't a decision that I am qualified to make on my own-"

"Which part? The telling of the name part? Because I'm pretty sure its public information if you're on a man hunt."

"Then why don't you know? You seem to have an idea of who I am, Dr. Ives."

"You're being awfully stubborn," I remarked with a slight roll of the eyes. "All I know about you is that you have a gift at seeing people for who they are, Mr. Graham. My own life was a bit chaotic-"

"With Adrian?"

"Yes, with him. I don't know anything else regarding whatever the FBI is searching for here."

My patience was finally beginning to wear down from the man's avoidance. Sure, I get it, protect the people and blah blah blah. But, in his efforts to still my curiosity's movements, it only agitated it. It became a beast that was hungry for answers, and with glee, it smiled at seeing Graham's final defenses weaken and dissipate.

I wish he hadn't now. I wish I never knew.

"His name is Hannibal Lecter," said Will Graham. "He has killed a few of my friends, and several other people back in Baltimore. Probably even more overseas."

A pause. It prevented me to speak, to breathe. One of the hardest pauses I've ever felt.

At first, I don't think I heard him.

"He's intelligent, confident, refined."

I didn't think I heard the name right at all. I tried to convince myself.

"Because of his background in medical sciences, the method in which he disposes of his victims is purposeful. Clean. He takes pride in his work."

It couldn't be. Ocher eyes blinked in my mind. A pretty mouth curled into an easy smile.

"How," I started weakly. "How does he dispose of them, the people?"

I thank God every day that Will Graham wasn't looking at me when I asked that question. If he stole even a glimpse of what I looked like, maybe things would have panned out differently. I wasn't ready for anything else. Wherever he was in his recollection, I strongly hoped in that moment on the bench that he would remain there.

"He eats them. He eats them all."

* * *

><p><strong>So. Long. <strong>

**Sorry, but I couldn't/didn't want to find another way around writing so much in this chapter. It is all just too much fun. Hopefully, I'll be able to better tame what goes on in my head in the next few installments. Thanks for reading. -TCR**


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